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WREATH OF SHAMROCKS: 

Ballad, Songs, an* 3ugnrts* 

BY 

/ 
JOHN K CASEY 



"Be blessings on the loved land of my birth ! 
Whero shall I meet with such another? 
My nurse— my mother ! 
The land of lands on earth !" 



DUBLIN : 

PUBLISHED BY ROBERT S. M'GEE, 
35 LOWER SACKVILLE STREET 

(Next the General Po*t Office). 



.5* 



3S"oi 



JOHN F. FOWLER, 

3 CROW STREET, DAME STREET, 

DUBLIN. 



O 



o 



o^- 



Y. I. 



THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS DEDICATED 



THE WRITER. 



" Non ille pro caris amicis 
Aut patna timidus perire". 
Hon. 



BALLADS, 
SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 



THE LAY OF NJAL THE VIKING. 

A NORSE LEGEND. 

The spring moon looked on our open sails 

As westward away we bore, 
And dim in its light paled the rocky face 

Of the gray-browed Nordland shore. 

The spectre of midnight wrapped our barque, 
For we heard his low-breathed moan, 

And like to a cloud, on the shining deck, 
Our Viking walked alone. 

He had laid aside the glittering spear, 

Which led on our battle path ; 
And his loosened armour creaked like the wind 

That circles the demon's rath. 

1 



2 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

We knew that a gloom rested on his brow, 

As he paced thus silently ; 
We knew that his bosom was seething wild, 

As the breakers on the sea. 

For Gundolf the seer had read him his fate, 

By the far off hills of snow ; 
And the prophet's words, by our monarch's looks, 

Were brimmed with a coming woe. 

The white stars arose, and in azure sank, 

Full many a time again, 
And still we wandered away, away, 

Over the green-lipped main ; 

Till at length we saw, on the far sea-rim, 

The dark beach of Inisfail, 
And our banner fluttered in warlike joy 

As we rushed from the ocean gale. 

We brightened our blades, our armour donned, 

And thought of the kine and gold 
That our fathers won with their purple jblood 

On that rugged coast of old. 

Then down to our bark came a minstrel hoar, 
With hair like the wild swan's wing — 

" The chieftain, my master, has bid me ask, 
What bringeth thee here, king ? 



BALLADS, SONGS. AND LEGENDS. 3 

" If your words speak peace, he has rest to give — 

Food, wassail, and song has he : 
If you come in war, he hath shining spears 

And a deadly grasp for thee". 

Thus answered our monarch : "Go, tell your chief, 

I want neither food nor rest ; 
But I want fair Una, the golden haired, 

The maid with the snowy breast. 

u I Ve a palace home in the northern land, 

And I fain would place her there, 
To brighten my soul like a burning star : 

These words unto him now bear". 

" Thy coming is late, strange-tongued king ! 

The maid is another's now". 
He passed away ; and a heavy storm 

Scowled black on our monarch's brow. 

The night spread its robes — like a growling bear 

The billows chafed wildly on ; 
" Where,-.where is the king ?" but none could tell ; 

None knew where he was gone. 

Our pulses were chill as we reefed the sails, 

And the demon of fire swept past ; 
We prayed to Thor, for we felt his breath 

In the roaring rush of the blast. 



4 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

We shook with a dread, such as mortals feel 

When spirits of hell are near ; 
We quailed as we thought of our absent lord, 

And thought of the words of the seer. 

And once in a hush of the storm we heard 
Fierce shouts on the hidden shore, 

And a clang of blades ; but the sounds were lost, 
And tost in the darkling roar. 

The tempest god fled to his hidden cave ; 

When the morning sunbeams woke, 
We looked to the land, — what a thrilling wail 

From the breasts of our bold crew broke ! 

For there lay our monarch with shattered crest, 
And the maiden clasp'd in his fold ; 

We flew to their forms, — but eagle and dove 
Together were dead and cold. 

Her ringlets of gold on his bosom slept, 
Where his bravest heart's blood poured, 

One hand was around her beautiful form, 
The other hand clutched his sword. 

We buried them there in the soft sea sand, 

His mantle their burial shroud ; 
Full sad was the fate of our wild Viking, 

Of Njal the dauntless and proud. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. I 

We buried them there in the lone sea sand, 
And oh ! but our looks were dark, 

As we shook our sails to the landward breeze, 
And homeward guided our barque. 

There was wailing for many and many a day 
On the hills of the snow-robed pine, 

For him who went forth to return no more, 
The last of old Harold's line. 

There were fearful curses and darksome vows, 

As we told the woeful tale, 
How his cairn we raised by the swelling sea, 

On the coast of Inisfail. 



MAIRE DONN ASTOR. 
Air — Molly Ban astor. 

In valleys lone I plucked the flowers, 

And wove them in her hair, 
And never in the greenwood bowers, 

Looked forest queen as fair. 
She gave one silent glance at me, 

With lovelight flowing o'er — 
Oh ! well that love 's returned to thee, 

My Maire Donn Astor.* 

* Brown-haired Mary, my treasure. 



6 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

The sloethorn woos the poplar brown, 

Where shines the sunlit hill — 
Its blossoms waft an odour down 

O'er meadow-slope, and rill. 
Her hand is as that blossom white, 

As pure her bosom's core ; 
My well of joy — my life's delight, 

My Maire Donn Astor. 

I Ve strung my harp to many a lay, 

With soothing magic sound — 
I Ve sung to lords and ladyes gay, 

Throughout old Ireland's ground : 
But now I find the tones are vain, 

The ancient songs to pour : 
Thy name alone that fills the strain, 

My Maire Donn Astor. 



THE WELCOME TO HUGH ROE 
O'DONNELL. 

Oh ! welcome back ! oh ! welcome back unto our 

hearts once more, — 
Hearts joyless, since a captive ta'en, you passed 

from Ulster's shore : 



BALLADS, SONGS, -AND LEGENDS. 7 

Oh ! welcome back ! list to the shouts fierce burst- 
ing from the clan, 
Who hail the fiery -hearted boy, now risen to a man! 



Oh ! sorely have we waited thro' the long, slow- 
footed years, 

Still mingling groans and curses with the burn- 
ing, blinding tears, 

Still pining for the avenging march : but now, 
O'Donnell Eoe, 

Your bonds are broke, the time has come for ven- 
geance on the foe. 

For vengeance on the foe who played the ser- 
pent's treacherous part,— 

Whose chains pressed down the heavings of our 
chieftains bounding heart, — 

Who kept that spirit lone and dead, which panted 
for the hills, 

The clansman's shout, the creach's song, the 
crooning of the rills. 

The foe whose bloody hand was laid upon Mac 

Mahon's head, 
Who spareth not the living, who disturbeth e'en~ 

the dead, 



8 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

Whose foot blasts all it treads upon, whose cursed 

flag is dyed 
With blood of aged helplessness and boyhood in 

its pride. 

And Ave have marked his hellish path, and trea- 
sured up our hate, 

Pile upon pile, we fed the flame, yet still re- 
solved to wait — 

Resolved to wait our Hugh's return, for well, oh ! 
well we knew 

His soul would thirst to grasp a blade, a warrior's 
work to do. 



We saw thee in thy dungeon keep count up the 

weary hours, 
While paled thy cheek within the shade of those 

sepulchral towers ; 
We felt the burning of thy soul, as day succeeded 

day, 
For green Tirconnell's mountain glens, away, so 

far away. 

But now, thou 'rt here, as free from thrall as 

eagle in the sky, 
And we are here with hand and blade to avenge 

thy wrongs or die ; 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 9 

Thy wrongs, Hugh ! thy country's wrongs, are 

they remembered now ? 
We need not ask — the answer rests upon thy 

clouded brow ! 



Wilt thou forgive the wily knaves who caught 

thee in the snare ? 
Who guarded thee as hunters watch the war wolf 

in his lair ? 
What stiffened up the swiftest limbs that ever 

chased the roe ? 
Why are those arms so weakly now, that dealt so 

strong a blow ? 

Compassion! mercy ! will they beam upon thy 

haughty face ? 
Aye, when thy steel has pierced the last of all the 

Saxon race — 
When brethren slain with sword and axe return 

to earth again, 
When brave Mac Mahon leads his clan thro 

Uriel's mountain glen. 

darling, idol of our hearts ! the hour has dawned 

at last, 
O'Neill holds forth the kindly hand, the ancient . / 

feud is past ; 



10 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

Come till we crown thee chief upon thy weak- 

souled father's throne, 
Then on for Freedom and for Faith, Tirconnell 

and Tireoghain. 

There 's joy to-night o'er Ulster wide, from Glynn 

to Dunagall, 
And merrily wild laughter shakes Dungannon's 

princely hall, 
In mountain hut and castle keep bright usque- 

bagh doth flow, 
To toast thy health, and welcome back our own 

O'Donnell Roe ! 



CARROLL BAWN. 
1798. 

'T was in the town of Wexford 

They sentenced him to die ; 
'T was in the town of Wexford 

They built the gallows high ; 
And there one summer morning, 

When beamed the gentle dawn, 
Upon that cursed gibbet 

They hung my Carroll Bawn. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 11 

Oh ! he was true and loyal, 

Oh ! he was proud and fair, 
And only nineteen summers 

Shone on his golden hair ; 
And when his gallant brothers 

Had grasped the pike in hand, 
Where the green flag streamed the fairest, 

He stood for native land. 



I saw him cross the heather, 

With his bold companie, 
And from the rising hill side 

He waved his hand to me ; 
Then on my wild heart settled, 

A load of woe and pain. 
Mo bhron! its throbbings told me, 

We M never meet again. 



They fought the Saxon foemen, 

By Slaney's glancing wave ; 
But brutal strength o'erpowered 

The gallant and the brave : 
And in the flight which followed 

That day of misery, 
Sore wounded he was taken, 

My Carroll bawn machree. 



12 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

Oh, fareer gair! that ever 

I saw the dreadful sight, 
His locks all damply hanging, 

His cheeks so deadly white ; 
What wonder if rny ringlets 

Were changed from dark to gray — 
Or if the blessed hand of God 

Had ta'en my life away. 



T was in the town of Wexford 

They sentenced him to die ; 
*T was in the town of Wexford 

They built the gallows high ; 
With form erect and manly, 

And look of scornful pride, 
For Ireland's faith and freedom 

My true love nobly died. 



The meadow path is lonely, 

The hearth is cold and dim, 
And the silent churchyard blossom 

Blooms softly over him ; 
And my heart is ever yearning 

For the calm rest coming on, 
When its weary pulse lies sleeping 

Beside my Carroll Bawn. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 1$ 

BY THE SEA. 

The soft winds sing across the sea, 

"While here I sit, all lone and cold, 
Rapt in the rays of memory 

That flash from golden days of old ; 
For oh ! the ocean's murmuring tune 

Speaks to my bosom of a time 
When life was as a harvest moon, 

Or warbling of a sylvan rhyme. 

An old gray house upon the beach, 

A gentle face that blessed its door 
(Whose eyes, like saint's from sculptured niche,. 

Look into mine for evermore), 
Full voices 'mid the garden flowers, 

To soothe and sanctify the day — 
These once were mine, but frozen hours 

Have stolen them all to depths away. 

One after one they glided past, 

Borne on the stream that mocks at time,— 
On dusty, thorny pathways cast, 

'Mid poisoned cares I lived my prime ; 
But still the breath of early buds 

Remained to scent the cross I bore, 
To give me strength to breast the floods 

That break on life's enclouded shore. 



14 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

Snow, chilly snow, fell on my way, 

And cast sharp icy thrills around ; 
But gentle voices, day by day, 

With hopeful tones my faint heart found. 
Soft stars looked through the dark-browed skies, 

And poured a pulsing light on me — 
I felt they were the radiant eyes 

That lit my youth beside the sea. 

Back, Memory ! close thy faded leaves, 

And let me ope the page to come ; 
'T is not with thee my soul now grieves ; 

I pine for rest ! I thirst for home ! 
I want to see beloved forms, 

I want to clasp soft hands again, 
To hear no more the roaring storms, 

To feel no more the aching pain. 



FEANCES. 
Air— The Coulin. 

Oh ! it is not the ringlets that stream from her 

brow, 
Nor the neck and soft hand which outrival the 

snow, 
Nor the. lips like the fruit of the tall apple-tree, 
That make my sweet Frances so dear unto me. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS, 15. 

Oh ! it is not the music that flows from her 

mouth 
When she sings the soft lays of her own native 

South, 
Nor the flash from her eyes, like the moon on 

Glanree, 
That makes my sweet Frances so dear unto me. 

But a grace and a charm that are lovelier still — 
'T is the soul shining pure as the snow on the 

hill, 
'T is the heart beating true as the waves on the 

sea, 
That make my sweet Frances so dear unto me. 

She is proud as the eagle on Mangerton's crest, 
Yet gentle as dove brooding o'er her young nest, 
With a pulse throbbinglhigh for the cause of the 

free — 
And this makes my Frances so dear unto me. 

How oft have we rambled the dear mountain 

path, 
And plucked the white blossoms beside the old 

rath, 
And I plaited a wreath for my cushla machree, 
And whispered that she was the dearest to me. 



16 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

Then I told her the tales of the grand days of 

old, 
Of the ladies so bright, and the chieftains so 

bold, 
Till she sighed for the fall of the gallant and 

free — 
And this made her dearer, far dearer to me. 

Oh ! years may go by with their sunshine and 

rain, 
With the light clouds of joy, and the dark ones of 

pain, 
But true, as my heart pulse, where'er I may 

be, 
My Frances astor will be dearest to me. 



THE OUTCAST ONE. 

Mirth was in that distant city on a mellow sum- 
mer even, 
Sounds of laughter and of music float along 
the twilight air, 
Down the fragrant moonlight streameth from the 
azure cheeks of heaven, 
And the stars in stilness glitter with a light 
divinely fair. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 17 

Laughter on the crowded footway, where the 
slaves of fashion wander — 
Laughter in the shaded gardens and the tall- 
browed palace hall — 
Laughter — ha ! what spectral figure crouches in 
the shadows yonder? 
What 's that object, fairest lady, leaning 'gainst 
thy trellised wall ? 



There 's a cold sneer on her lip, and her jewelled 
brow is arching 
With the scorn of a spirit that mocks at human 
woe, 
And her eyes gaze on unheeding at the myriads 
thickly marching : 
Ay, that wretched outcast beggar — what of her 
has she to know ? 



She is flesh and blood — what say you ? Thow 
hast riches, rank, and splendour, 
Servants bowing to thy bidding, proud ones 
kneeling at thy feet ; 
Soft that mantle on thy shoulders, and thy 
cushioned seat is tender ; 
Then what care you for a sister lying starving 
in the street ? 

2 



18 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

Ten, eleven — how the hours pass away — like 
flashes flying, 
Where the devil holds the doorway, holds the 
password, and the key ! 
Ten, eleven! — ah! how slowly to that gentle 
maiden dying ! 
None to fling the dew of pity on her frenzied 
agony. 



Twelve ! A tramp upon the side-path — " Off, 
away ! no place for sleeping — 
Off, away !" the watchman crieth in the calm- 
ness of the night ; 
And she totters slowly, weakly, with her eyelids 
scorched with weeping, 
And a brow of whiter marble never faced the 
broad moonlight ! 



I have seen that brow of marble in a glow of 
health and beauty, 
Where the Shannon ripples softly by the tow- 
ers of Athlone, 
Where the tall hills nurse the streamlets with a 
mother's love and duty, 
As they wander ever plashing over beds of 
amber stone. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 19 

And those eyes, now red and burning, then were 
kindly, soft, and loving ; 
And those brown locks danced as freely as the 
breeze that shook them free ; 
And those feet tripped o'er the heather swiftly 
as the young hare roving ; 
And those pale lips were the reddest from that 
river to the sea. 

But a cloud spread o'er the landscape, and a 
hearth in desolation 
Echoed back the farewell parting of its last, 
last tenant gone : 
She was parted from the lone graves of her kin- 
dred and her nation — 
Like a waif she drifted onward, in a stranger 
land, alone. 



Tell no tales, dismal river I do not whisper 
out that story : 
Oh ! that story ! that dark story ! hush it in 
thy deepest wave, 
Or the mother that once nursed her, and the 
father old and hoary, 
"Would arise to curse thy waters from the lovr 
depths of the grave. 



20 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

Still the palace hall is laden with its freight of 
gold and pearl, 
Still the jewelled lady gazeth with a haughty 
look of pride ; 
While the broken-hearted outcast, that weak, 
starving Irish girl, 
Floats away unto the ocean on the river's 
moonlit tide. 



MALKE MY GIRL. 
A.TR.—Mairgread ni Chealleadh. 

Over the dim blue hills 

Strays a wild river, 
Over the dim blue hills 

Rests my heart ever. 
Dearer and brighter than 

Jewels and pearl, 
Dwells she in beauty there, 

Maire my girl. 

Down upon Claris heath 
Shines the soft berry, 

On the brown harvest tree 
Droops the red cherry. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 21 

Sweeter thy honey lips, 

Softer the curl 
Straying adown thy cheeks, 

Maire my girl. 



'T was on an April eve 

That I first met her ; 
Many an eve shall pass 

Ere I forget her. 
Since, my young heart has been 

Wrapped in a whirl, 
Thinking and dreaming of 

Maire my girl. 

She is too kind and fond 

Ever to grieve me, 
She has too pure a heart 

E'er to deceive me. 
Were I Tyrconnell's chief 

Or Desmond's earl, 
Life would be dark, wanting 

Maire my girl. 

Over the dim blue hills 

Strays a wild river, 

Over the dim blue hills 

Kests my heart ever ; 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

Dearer and brighter than 

Jewels or pearl, 
Dwells she in beauty there, 

Maire my girl ! 



THE REAPER OF GLANREE. 

We sat around the fireside — 't was in the Christ- 
mas time — 

And lightly passed the hours away with story, 
song, and rhyme ; 

But of the wild old legends blind Fergus told to 
me 

None set my young heart bounding like the 
Reaper of Glanree. 

"'T is sixty-four long summers sinee the days of 

'98— 
Black days of desolation, of murder, and of 

hate — 
The truest and the bravest, then, in all the coun- 

terie, 
"Was dashing Gerald Murtagh, the Reaper of 

Glanree. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 23 

il As brown as autumn chesnuts his ranting, rov- 
ing eye, 

His form a mountain-ash tree, so towering, strong, 
and high ; 

An arm of tempered iron, a voice of jovial glee, 

And a soul as clear as diamond, had the Reaper 
of Glanree. 

" Bright morning on the moorland and hillside 

soft and green, 
But at his daily labour young Gerald is not seen ; 
His hook lies on the hurdle, 'just where it ought 

to be, 
When pikes cut down the harvest', said the 

Eeaper of Glanree. 

" i Your mother weeps all lonely, your father 's 

gray with grief, 
And Cathaleen O'Reilly is gone past all relief. 
i Oh ! go and bring them kindly this message 

now from me — 
My country is my true love', said the Reaper of 

Glanree. 

"The yeomen mustered strongly, a lawless, 

bloody crew ; 
His pikemen, stout and gallant, bold Gerald 

mustered too ; 



24 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

In on the foemen's vanguard they charged with 

fearless glee — 
* Old Faing an lea for ever !' cried the Reaper of 

Glanree. 



"The Saxon bay'nets beaten, they tried the 
yellow gold, 

And Gerald and his sweetheart were treacher- 
ously sold ; 

Full hotly did they chase him through Meath 
and Annalee, 

But a match for spy and soldier was the Eeaper of 
Glanree. 



" i Cold in the clay they 're lying, my parents, 

side by side, 
And Cathaleen O'Reilly a mongrel traitor's bride ; 
But still, oh ! still, my country ! I pledge my 

troth to thee ; 
You never will deceive me', said the Reaper of 

Glanree. 



(l The stars were sweetly shining on Longford's 

ancient town ; 
The sentry's eyes were seeking the Camlen waters 

brown— 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 25 

A tap upon his shoulder — ' What *do you want 

of me ?' 
6 Och ! nothing but a lodging ; I 'm the Reaper 

of Glanree\ 



" Right safely did they lodge him until the com- 
ing day, 

And stern and short the sentence — ' Death ! death 
without delay'. 

With foot upon the gallows, eyes flashing fear- 
lessly, 

And a cheer for faith and country, died the 
Reaper of Glanree". 

And thus blind Fergus chanted, at holy Christ- 
mas time, 

His brave and noble story, in rough, untutored 
rhyme ; 

And oft I cried, "Dear Erinn! this heart now 
vows to thee 

A love as pure and faithful as the Reaper's of 
Glanree". 



26 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGE JDS. 

* GOLDSMITH 

BY THE LOIRE.* 

The calm air rested on the grass 

Brown-hued by summer's fading sun, 
And far above the vapours dun 

Were clustering in a fleecy mass. 

From trellised doors low drooped the vine, 
And sounds of soft Provencal song 
"Rose from the happy peasant throng 

A-quaffing draughts of fragrant wine. 

Far sunward, like a band of gold, 

The broad Loire gleamed bright and fair, 
As when, with stout spears bristling, there 

The Norman Roii his flag unrolled. 

A silence holds the merry crowd 
As upward, from the dusty way, 
A traveller cometh — strange to say, 

A traveller poor, yet stepping proud. 

His face has not the Gallic hue, 
Around his lips there plays a smile 
Like one whose breast is free from guile, 

To God and nature firm and true. 

* Suggested by a view of his statuette in Ballymahon 
Reading Room. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 27 

"Here, here is peace, yet not for me, 
Let me enjoy it while I may, 
I yearn for other scenes away 
In my own land across the sea". 

The wanderer sits before the door 
Amid that eager, wondering band, 
The wine cup in his clasped hand, 

Before him spread the household store. 

He thinks how long he pined and pined 
The world and all its shades to see, 
Its " Citizen" alone to be — 

And here is what his heart divined. 

Yet there is something wanting still — 
The mother's love, the father's prayer, 
The freshness of his native air, 

The ancient home, the rath-crowned hill. 

This is the void — but now the rays 
Of moonlight kiss the ripening fruit ; 
He breathes into his soft-tuned flute, 

And young eyes fill the while he plays. 

The sad old tunes that soothe his breast 
Along the air in richness flow, 
Freighted with dreams of long ago, 

Dreams full of pearls and silken rest. 



28 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

A change ! a change ! the jovial strain— 
Old Ballymahon town appears ; 
" Bob", " Jack", and all the wild compeers 

Of awkward, mad brained " Noll" again ! 

As swiftly round the dancers go, 

He thinks he rides on " Fiddleback", 
The careless poet's sorry hack, 

With spirits in congenial flow. 

Thus 'neath the smiling moon of France 
He laughs and plays his melodies 
To thoughts and fancies such as these, 
That through his brain in madness dance- 
So be it. Let the scoffer sneer — 
Goldsmith! thy life is understood 
By all, like thee, who love the good, 
To whom God's work is always dear. 

Thy follies ! we can let them pass, 

And make the bright lights ever shine 
That sparkle from a soul divine 

As clear and pure as crystal glass. 

The traveller now, the preacher then — 
The poet-preacher filled with love, 
As gentle as the light above 

That woos the rugged hearts of men. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 29 

Here, in the spot thy feet oft pressed, 
A Celtic minstrel tribute pays 
To all thy strange and generous ways, 

Thy faults, thy virtues, and the rest. 

Peace to thy clay ! Let other men 
Chant forth thy fame in golden song ; 
I stand and ask, among the throng, 

Where will thy like be found again ? 



THE BIRD AND THE LADYE. 

A little bird sat on a bough 

While drearily the snow was falling ; 
Its eye was dark, its breast was red, 
And lowly drooped its crested head 

Before the wind so wildly calling. 
Full sad it sung a mournful lay 

Down i' that silent forest glen : 
" My merry mate is gone away ; 

Oh ! when will he return again ? 
My merry mate is gone away ; 

When, when will he return again ?" 



30 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

A ladye at her window leant, 

Her brown hair on her shoulders straying; 
She looked across the misty hills, 
And listened to the bursting rills 

That fiercely laughed, like giants playing ; 
And thus the snow-wind bore the lay 

Adown the lonely mountain glen : 
" My true love, he is gone away ; 

Oh ! when will he return again ? 
My true love, he is gone away ; 

When, when will he return again ?" 

The Spring light kissed Slieve Cam's brow, 

And bright the " silver dew" was falling ; 
Right merrilie a little bird 
Down i' the lonely wood was heard 

Among the budding flowerets calling : 
"The cold, cold snow has fled away 

From hillside green and forest glen, 
And Spring has brought the evenings gay, 

And brought my true mate back again ; 
Oh ! Spring has brought the mornings gay, 

And brought my true mate back again". 

And down beside the castle wall, 

Where Inny's wave was softly playing, 
A noble knight, with plume of green, 
And gentlest ladye, might be seen 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 31 

Across the daisied meadows straying. 
They sat beneath an ash- tree gray, 

And thus her voice flowed down the glen : 
" The Spring has brought the flowerets gay, 

And brought my true love back again ; 
Gh! Spring has brought the flowerets gay, 

And brought my true love home again". 



THE RISING- OF THE MOON. 

a.d. 1798. 

Air — The Wearing of the Green. 

" Oh ! then tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall, 

Tell me why you hurry so ?" 
" Hush, ma bouchal, hush and listen", 

And his cheeks were all a-glow. 
61 1 bear ordhers from the captain, 

Get you ready quick and soon, 
For the pikes must be together 

At the risin' of the moon". 

" Oh ! then tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall 
Where the gatherin' is to be ?" 

" In the ould spot by the river, 

Right well known to you and me. 



32 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

One word more— for signal token 
Whistle up the marchin' tune, 

With your pike upon your shoulder, 
By the risin' of the moon". 

Out from many a mudwall cabin 

Eyes were watching thro' that night, 
Many a manly chest was throbbing 

For the blessed warning light. 
Murmurs passed along the valleys 

Like the banshee's lonely croon, 
And a thousand blades were flashing 

At the risin' of the moon. 

There beside the singing river 

That dark mass of men was seen, 
Far above the shining weapons 

Hung their own beloved green. 
" Death to ev'ry foe and traitor ! 

Forward! strike the marchin' tune, 
And hurrah, my boys, for freedom ! 

'T is the risin' of the moon". 

Well they fought for poor old Ireland, 
And full bitter was their fate 

(Oh ! what glorious pride and sorrow 
Fill the name of Ninety-Eight). 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 33 

Yet, thank God, e'en still are beating 
Hearts in manhood's burning noon, 

Who would follow in their footsteps 
At the risin' of the moon ! 



CHRISTMAS MEMORIES. 

Oh ! those Christmas times, mavourneen, are not 

like the times of old, 
When the light of love shone softly, and our 

pulses felt no cold ; 
When the laughter of the young hearts round 

the hearth rang merrily ; — 
Now the laughter and the young hearts all are 

gone, asthore, machree ! 

Methinks I see our darling Kate, her blue eyes 

fixed on mine, 
And dark haired Patrick resting soft his little 

hand in mine ; 
Methinks I hear brave Owen's voice, and Brian's 

free and gay, 
With soft cheeked Eily's mingling in the holy 

Christmas lay. 

3 



•34 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

Dreams ! dreams ! to-night the ancient hearth no 
kindly look doth wear, 

There is snow upon the threshold stone and dull- 
ness everywhere. 

No swell of rushing voices pours the holy 
Christmas lay, 

The young hearts, and the merry hearts, ma- 
vourneen, where are they ? 



Ah, blue-eyed Kate and Patrick Dhu, long, long 

have found their rest, 
Where Shruel's silent churchyard looks across 

the Inny's breast ; 
And, Eily, thy young heart lies cold and pulseless 

'neath the sea 
Full many and many a Christmas-tide, alanna 

bawn machree. 



And by Potomac's blood-tinged wave brave Owen 
nobly fell. 

My gallant boy ! they say he fought right glo- 
riously and well ; 

And Brian's voice is hushed in death, where blue 
Australian streams 

Fill with their youthful melodies the exile's glow- 
ing dreams. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 35 

Asthore, astliore, beside the light our faces shine 

alone ; 
But they are clustered with the stars before the 

eternal throne : 
With St. Patrick and St. Brigid and the angels 

robed in white, 
They sing the old remembered strains, their 

Christmas hymn, to-night. 

Old love ! old love ! His will be blessed that left 

e'en you to me 
To keep my heart from bursting with the wild, 

wild memory. 
That soothing glance, mavourneen, speaks of 

Christmas times to come, 
When the scattered hearts shall meet for aye 

in God's eternal home. 



AUTUMN SONNETS. 

I. -THE HARVEST MOON. 

Amid a sea of radiance, glorious Moon ! 

Thou wand'rest onward, dreamless, change- 
less still — 



36 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

Oh ! let my spirit now with thee commune, 
And of thy raptured splendour quaff its fill, 
Till mingles with thy silence every ill, 
Till care forgets its missioned task, and dies, 
And weary, wasting sorrow swiftly flies 
Adown the current of oblivion's rill. 
Oh ! let the flood of light which crowns thee now, 
Upon my sinking soul pour down a dew 
To smoothe the hollow wrinkles on my brow, 
And make life's dusty garment fresh and new : 
Thus born again in boyhood's bursting noon, 
My soul will walk with thee, O glorious Moon ! 



II. -REAPING. 

Eeap on, ye stricken hearts — weak hands, reap on ! 

The glowing sheaf beneath your strokes must 
lie, 

Albeit the blood within your veins runs dry, 
Albeit the hue that lit your cheeks is gone : 

What recks the stranger of your burning toil ? 

What cares he if your sweat bedew the soil ? 
Your lives are his — his labour must be done. 
Oh ! lift not to the sky your faces pale I 

Poor slaves ! ye would not hold what heaven 
gave ; 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS, 37 

Ye trembled at the rising of the gale — 

Ye feared to stand before the surging wave — 
Ye feared to claim your own : reap on, reap on ! 
God, in good time, stout hearts and hands will 

send, 
Who '11 sow, and reap, and hold His treasures to 

the end. 



THE CHANGE. 

I saw her in her country home, 

Near brown Slieve Ban, 
With brow as white as ocean foam, 

Face like the dawn, 

And lips that rivalled in their hue 

The berry on the heathy moor, 

And eyes like shining drops of dew, 

And heart as pure. 

I saw her in her city home, 

Sad, worn, and wan ; 
And then I asked, " why did she roam 

From far Slieve Ban ?" 
Ah ! paler grew her sunken cheek, 

And darker shadows dimmed her brow, 
As she essayed the words to speak, 

" I 'm homeless now". 



38 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

" The tyrant's minions fiercely came 

Unto our cot, 
And soon the rafter's lurid flame 

Illumed the spot. 
My father died — my friends were fled 7 
Poor exiles, o'er the frothing sea — 
And I came here to toil for bread 

In misery. 

ie Still toiling on in scathing woe 

From day to day ; 
Within my breast no hopeful glow 

To light my way ; 
Unknown I walk among the crowd,. 
Without a smile, without a word, 
To cheer a spirit downward bowed, 

Long pierced and gored. 

" Oh ! if I could but see once more 
Slieve Ban's dark crest, 

Or hear the waves at evening roar 
On Shannon's breast, 

The healthful flush might fill my cheek, 
And chase the aching from my brow. 

Movrone ! movrone ! why do I speak ? — 
I 'm homeless now". 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 3£ 

THE HORSEMAN OF DUNRONE. 

A NINETY-EIGHT BALLAD. 
PART I. 

il Rise up ! rise up ! O'Brennan Roe, as quickly 
as you may, 

Or else you lie in fetters bound before the break 
of day ; 

Rise up ! rise up ! the redcoats now are march- 
ing from Athy, 

And the captain of the bloody horde has sworn 
that you must die". 

He leaped unto the window, but the warning 
voice was gone ; 

His hand upon his carbine laid, his garments 
hurried on, 

He kissed his sleeping brother's brow, and has- 
tened out with speed, 

And soon was riding o'er the plain upon his gal- 
lant steed. 

The moonlight fell in golden streams across the 

waving heath, 
And brightly looked each little star upon the- 

earth beneath ; 



40 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

No sound was on the night-wind, save the Bar- 
row's lonely fall, 

And the whistling of the plover mingled with the 
grouse's call. 

■** On, on, brave horse ! your mission now is life 

or death to me ! 
To-night, to-bid a long farewell, my true love I 

must see. 
To-morrow ! then, ye Saxon dogs ! come seize 

me, if you dare ! 
My faith ! but ye shall rue the day ye marched 

into Kildare !" 

He rode away, he rode away, o'er grassy bawn 

and moor, 
And ne'er checked rein until he stood before his 

true love's door ; 
A gentle tap and whisper, and the door was 

opened wide, 
And Brigid Bawn O'HefFernan was clinging to 

his side. 

Oh ! tremblingly she listened to the tidings he 

did tell, 
And on his brave and manly heart her tears in 

torrents fell ; 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 41 

He thought to soothe the heavy grief — but all 

his words were vain, 
For he felt himself the shadow of a corning cloud 

of pain. 

"They've tracked me now, acushla! they are 

thirsting for my life, 
But to-morrow I shall meet them breast to breast 

in deadly strife, 
And the eagle on the battle-field will pick a 

dainty fare 
In the fat and pampered tyrants of the county of 

Kildare. 



" And won't your eyes flash brightly when our 

conq'ring bands are seen, 
With their weapons all a-shining, and old Erin's 

flag of green ! 
Then hush ! and dry those tears away — 't is time 

that we should part". 
He flung his arms around her, and he pressed 

her to his heart. 

Her hair in wild disorder lay in tresses on his 

cheek, 
And neither in those moments sad the parting 

words could speak ; — 



42 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

But the silent clasp was broken by a wild and 

shrilly neigh, 
And wildly was it answered but a meadow's 

length away. 



There is a tramping and a clanking — 't is the 

march of the dragoon — 
And a score of helmets gleaming in the full blaze 

of the moon ; 
" They 're here ! they 're here ! quick, darling r 

quick ! you 're lost, if you are seen !" 
A leap into the saddle, and he sweeps across the 

green. 

He rode away, he dashed away, by grassy bawn 

and moor, 
But the bright moon led the foemen on as swiftly 

and as sure ; 
Yet, though deadly was his peril, still there lay 

upon his mind 
A heavier load of sorrow for his true love left 

behind. 

He rode away, he rode away, and gallantly his 

steed 
Showed the mettle which is ever found the true 

man's friend at need ; 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 43 

O'er field and ditch and road and stream, o'er 

bog and sluggish fen, 
Till he gained the guarded trysting of the brave 

United Men. 



What a shout of manly greeting met the weary 

rider there, 
As he leaped into the centre of the heroes of 

Kildare ! 
" The chase was hot to-night, my boys — the 

quarry 's still at bay ; 
But the bloodhounds on another track will curse 

the rising day". 



The morning sun was peeping softly through the 

dawning cloud, 
And its rays were flowing brightly on a dark and 

massy crowd — 
It fell upon a forest of bright pikes in warlike 

sheen, 
That were glinting on the hill-top 'neath the flag 

of gold and green. 

And up the dewy heather bands of men were '. 
marching on, 



44 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

All pouring like a thousand streams to where 

that banner shone ; 
And riding here, and riding there, with hanging 

bridal rein, 
Frieze-coated horsemen guarded all the toghers* 

to the plain. 

Anon a group with laughter hoarse were sharp- 
eniog their blades, 

And others tying in their hats the flashing green 
cockades ; 

But one among that multitude stood silently alone: 

'T was Patrick Roe O'Brennan, the young horse- 
man of Dunrone. 

■" O'Brennan !" — 't was his kinsman spoke — 

O'Ryan, stout and true — 
" No time it is for thinking when there 's heavy 

work to do. 
"'T was my voice that gave you warning of the 

wily Saxon foe, 
And now I bear you tidings it is well that you 

should know. 

<£ Last night I lay in ambush hid, and saw a sight 

that well 
Might raise the deepest envy of the demons down 

in hell : 

* Roads. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 45 

Boy ! listen till your heart's blood boils and 

blazes with revenge — 
You 've a mother and a brother and a sweetheart to 

avenge. 

"Your mother and. your brother in the burning 

thatch were flung, 
And by her glossy yellow hair your Brigid Og 

was hung ; 
Your name was last upon her lips, when, through 

her torn vest, 
The sword of cursed Captain Gore was sheathed 

in her breast. 

u God ! have I not the same sight seen — the same 

red woes withstood — 
When I found my hearthstone clotted with my 

murdered parents' blood ? 
When I found my wife and children swinging 

naked on a tree ?" — 
But the listener's face was whiter than the snow 

upon the lea. 

And for a moment seemed he just as if the life 

were fled, 
And his eyes glared in their sockets with the 

cold stare of the dead ; 



46 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

The bridle fell down from his grasp — he gave a 

heavy groan — 
Then again his frame grew steady and as silent 

as a stone. 



He flung himself upon the sod, he looked up in 

the air — 
A cross from out his bosom drew, now heaving 

broad and bare ; 
A tear fell on the holy sign — his comrade's hand 

he took — 
" Sleeps she in holy earth?" he cried, with stern, 

unbending look. 

" Yes, yes — at dawning of the light I placed her 

in the grave, 
Beside the old brown abbey wall o'erlooking 

Barrow's wave". 
"Thank God! — and now my murdered kin, my 

outraged, butchered love, 
I swear to have red blood for blood, by Him who 

reigns above ! 

'" I swear to hunt your murderers, by night and 

open day, 
Until their blood smokes in the air as thick as 

ocean spray". 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 47 

He kissed the cross, then backed his horse, his 

carbine slinging free : 
-"For vengeance and old Ireland, true hearts! 

now follow me". 

On many a field that voice was heard — that car- 
bine's ringing sound — 

And many a redcoat fierce and tall his scian 
struck to the ground ; 

The first to rush upon the foe, and ever last to 

Well might the Saxons tremble when they heard 
his charging cry. 



A small and weary band of men, unconquered to 
the last, 

With tall pikes clutched in grim despair, across 
the borders passed : 

Brave hearts ! through hosts of enemies they Ve 
cut their way alone, 

And foremost rides O'Brennan Eoe, the horse- 
man of Dunrone. 

All, all around the bayonets close — a grim, un- 
broken wall — 

And feebler still the heroes strike, as one by one 
they fall ; 



48 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

A single rider falls the last — yet, ere he ceased 

to breathe, 
His murdered love was well avenged on the corn 

slopes of Meath. 



THE HILLS OF CONNEMARA. 

The night-mist thickens o'er the town, 

The twilight *s paling dimmer, 
A-through the chill, hum-laden air 

The gaslights faintly glimmer. 
In exile here I sit and think, 

My heart surcharged with sorrow, 
Of home, and friends that watch for me 
On the hills of Connemara — 
Those glorious hills ! 
Those kindly hills ! 
The hills of Connemara. 



The night-mist thickens o'er the town, 
But heavier mists are falling 

On the Irish breast, "bereft of love, 
For peace and rest long calling. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 4$' 

Alone ! alone ! where millions throng, 

As if my brain to harrow 
With golden dreams of thundering streams 
On the hills of Connemara — 
The loving hills, 
The wild- eyed hills, 
The hills of Connemara. 



On Corrib's cheeks the moonlight sleeps. 

The currach skims full lightly ; 
O'er Clif den's slopes our mountain girls 

Now wander singing blithely, 
And I must bear this strife and din, 

While memory strives to borrow 
One look of love, one sparkling glance 
Of the hills of Connemara. 
soft-faced hills ! 
brown-tipped hills — 
Brave hills of Connemara ! 

God's dearest blessing dwell with them ; 

God bless the race they foster, 
If Ireland's sons were all as true, 

We never would have lost her. 
God prosper all my burning hopes, 

The hopes to crown to-morrow, 
When the streams will sing my welcome back 



50 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

To the hills of Connemara, — 
My native hills, 
My childhood's hills, 

The hills of Connemara ! 



BOUCHALEEN DHOUN. 

My true love he dwells on the mountains, 

Like a war-eagle fearless and free, 
By the side of the low-tuning fountains 

That wander through wide Annalee. 
His soul has more valour and honour 

Than a king with a palace and crown, 
For the blood of the race of O'Connor 

Fills the veins of my Bouchaleen Dhoun. 

Soft cead mille failte I give him 

When he comes ev'ry Sunday to me, 
And what can I do but believe him 

As he whispers acushla machree? 
For the look is so truthful and tender 

Of his bright roving eyes of dark brown, 
That I 'm sure e'en a lady in splendour 

Would be coaxed by my Bouchaleen Dhoun. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 51 

My father has riches in plenty, 

And suitors for me in his eye ; 
But, oh ! let my age come to twenty — 

If I don't give them all the good-bye ! 
For I sigh for a life on the mountains 

Far away from the dust of the town, 
With the song of the soft-tuning fountains 

And the love of my Bouchaleen Dhoun, 



DESPAIR NOT. 

Think of the past — do not despair, 
Nor fill with useless sighs the air ; 
But grasp the flag with steady will, 
And firm as rock upon a hill. 
Eead ye the lesson taught of old 
By those who now lie dark and cold, 
The gallant hearts who lost the crown, 
Yet never bowed the spirit down. 

They saw the dawning pale and fade, 
The deadly havoc tempests made ; 
But love shone pure, and faith was bright, 
The twin-stars of their clouded night. 



52 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

Again they front the tyrant-mass, 
Again they 're strewed like tedded grass,. 
Yet conquerors, for they left behind 
The trophies of a country's mind. 

Despair not ! blazon forth this scroll 
Upon thy country's bannered roll : 
The righteous cause can never bend 
Until it conquers in the end. 
What though the chieftains all are gone ! 
A line of chiefs still cometh on 
To send the cry from sea to sea — 
We must be free ! — we must be free ! 



THE POET. 

A MIDNIGHT GLANCE. 

The gray haze floats across the moon, 

The white stars through the depths look down. 

While gently broods the soft night noon 
Over the ancient sea-fringed town. 

Another light is shining there 

So weirdlike in the stilly air, 

As if to mock with ghastly glare 

The gems that stud the Heavens' broad crown. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 53 

HusTied is the busy, fev'rish din 

That filled the ear the whole day long. 
Hushed is the trilling violin, 

The wandering singer's twilight song ; 
And by that light low bendeth one 
Who seemeth as if all were gone, 

And he a watcher in the gloom, 

The midnight sentry of the tomb, 
Or gaunt and pulseless skeleton, 

To haunt that narrow, cheerless room. 

But nineteen summers cast a hue 
Within those dreaming eyes of blue ; 
Yet settled woe has left a trace 
Upon the brow and flushing face. 
Loveless and friendless, there he sits, 

Amid his old and treasured books, 
As minute after minute flits, 
His manly forehead closer knits 

Above the page with anxious looks, 
Tracing away with rapid thought 
The burning dreams his brain has wrought — 
Dead, dead to all save that wild song 
r Jhat, like a broad stream, rolls along, 
Bearing away the leaves that were, 
Ere friendship left the sting of care, 
Ere love came on all starred with gold, 
To find him young, and leave him old. 



M BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

The song must come, though passion's well 

Is dried to vapour at its source, — 
Although it cometh but to tell 

How destiny can pave a course. 
So let him sing. The haunted noon 
Shall bear it calmly to the moon, 
Till spirits of the dead will glide 
In close communion to his side, 
And whisper in a soothing strain, 
Thou shalt not live and work in vain. 

The glaring lamp is quenched, and cool 

The moonlight sleeps upon his brow, 
He leans his head upon his hand, 
And thinks of that bright spirit land 
Where God alone doth teach and rule, 

Where they are resting happy now : 
And, ere the pale stars seek the sea, 

To bathe their cheeks in crested foam, 
His soul forgets the woe and dree 

A- dreaming of that far-off home. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 55 



SONG OF GOLDEN-HEADED NIAMEL 

AN OSSIANIC LAY. 

Oh ! come with me to Tirnan-og ; 

There fruit and blossoms bend each tree, 
Ked sparkling wine and honey flow, 

And beauty smiles from sea to sea. 

Your flowing locks will ne'er turn gray, 

No wrinkles on your forehead come, 

Nor burning pain nor grim decay, 

Across the threshold of your home. 

So haste away to Tirnan-og, 

My white steed waits in golden sheen ? 
A diadem shall crown thy brow, 
And I will be thy bridal queen. 

The feast is spread, within the hall 

Flash drinking cups with gold encrowned ; 
The harp leans lightly 'gainst the wall 

To strike for thee the welcome sound. 
A hundred sword-blades for thy hand, 

A hundred of the swiftest steeds, 
A hundred hounds, a matchless band 

Where'er the hunted quarry leads. 



•56 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

So haste away to Tirnan-og, 

My white steed waits in golden sheen ; 
A diadem shall crown thy brow, 

And I will be thy bridal queen. 

A hundred robes of precious silk, 

And gems from an enchanted mine, 
A hundred kine of sweetest milk, 

And armour of the brightest shine. 
And thou shalt wear that wondrous sword 

Of keenest edge, whose flash is death : 
The summer wind will hear thy word, 
And gently pour its tender breath. 
So haste away to Tirnan-og, 

My white steed waits in golden sheen ; 
A diadem shall crown thy brow, 
And I will be thy bridal queen. 

Young virgins, sweetest in the song, 

And beauteous as the morning sun, 
Around thy noble steps will throng 

To make thy path a joyous one ; 
And heroes, in the combat stern, 

In speed and boldness unsurpassed, 
Before whose prowess Fionn would learn 

To bow his haughty head at last. 
So haste away to Tirnan-og : 

My white steed waits in golden sheen ; 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 57 

A diadem shall crown thy brow, 
And I will be thy bridal queen. 

O Oisin of the powerful hand ! 

First in the chase, first in the war, 
Over our sweet and glorious land 

Thy gallant deeds were borne afar. 
Loch Leine is deep, but deeper still 

In Niamh's soul thy image dwells ; 
Then turn thee westward from this hill 
To where the sun-hued billow swells. 
Oh! haste away to Tirnan-og; 

My white steed waits in golden sheen ; 
• A diadem will crown thy brow, 
And I will be thy bridal queen. 



PASTED. 

"We met when April clouds with softened bloom 
Were floating o'er the orchard and the hill : 

We parted when spring visions sought the tomb, 
And summer voices murmured in each rill. 

The cowslips glittered on the pastures fair, — 
We wandered onward, but we saw them not ; 

I twined my fingers through my darling's hair, 
And in her eyes divined my future lot. 



58 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

We saw but one another, and the time 
Sailed on as leaves upon an open stream. 

Our hearts were pulsing in a gentle rhyme, 
Our faces lit with an ethereal gleam. 

The heather lapse stretched into fairy land, 
Far off where shone a low and lonely star t 

We joined the spirits of that radiant band, 
Nor saw the tempest coming from afar. 

It burst! a flash — a rending of the skies — 
A blinding phantom on our vision crost. 

It passed ! the light into the distance dies : 
I stood alone : my treasured love was lost. 

Lost ! lost ! and nevermore, oh ! nevermore 
To stand beside me in the light of love, 

To whisper stories of that beauteous shore 
With accents softer than the cooing dove. 

Oh ! nevermore ; and yet, while twilight falls y 
I sit alone in weariness and pain, 

A voice amid the fading vapour calls — 
I think I see that olden face again. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 5£ 



TO CHARLES J. KICKHAM. 

The winter moon shines down on Slieve-na-mon r 

Crowning with light its misty crest of blue ; 
The Christmas snow from upland slopes is gone ; 

The tranquil air weeps down a silvery dew. 
Oh ! why this grief by Anner's flowery side, 

And far across old Minister's hill-girt plain ? 
Mobhron ! mobhron ! bold Tipperary's pride 

Is wearing now the Saxon's felon chain — 
The chain our fathers strove to burst, and strove 



Art thou a felon, then, child of song ! 

Brave singer, true to Erin's grief of years ? 
Art thou a felon, while the hireling throng 

Of heartless traitors trace anew their tears ? 
God ! again we see the informer's brow, 

The fiendish sneer upon his branded face ; 
Again the burning love and changeless vow, 

And stainless glory of the brave old race, — 
The patriots, one by one, stand in their fathers* 
place. 



€0 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

The eagle on the cliff can proudly soar ; 

The eagle in the cage, though spirit-bowed, 
Still bears the warlike front he ever bore 

As changeless as w 7 hen rushing through the 
cloud. 
Fetters are clasped upon the patriot's hand, 

But say what fetters hold they for the mind ; 
Have they a chain within our darkened land 

The Celtic love of liberty to bind, 
The legacy and trust our fathers left behind ? 

They chain the noble-minded, pure, and true ; 

They place the minstrel in the murderer's cell, 
Where frame and soul that once in glory grew 

Must feel the tortures of a second hell. 
The bard who sang of Irish truth and love, 

And feasted on his country's golden page, 
Whose heart is gentle as a woodland dove, 

Now bends before a brutal gaoler's rage, 
Because the ancient war of right he dared to 



And shall we curse them in our bursting wrath ? 

Look at that face, so sad, resigned, and wan : 
That heart now dreams of childhood's flowery 
path, 

Of Anner's stream, and glorious Slievenamon. 



BALLADS, CONGS, AND LEGENDS. 61 

Charles, farewell ! the bolts grate on my ear : 
As Tasso suffered for his proud love's sake, 
A felon's chain for Ireland now you wear, 

Yet be of cheer, — let not your brave heart 
break, — 
For yet this sleeping land in Freedom's light 
shall wake. 



A VISION OF THE HEARTH. 

Ghostly through the chilly ether 

Glides the silent, cheerless snow, 
And the wind across the heather 

Growls and mutters deep and low ; 
Dimmer burns the wasting fire, 

Lower droops its ruddy blaze, 
And as spark and spark expire, 

Sadder, wearier, I gaze. 

For I see in every ember 

Some beloved departed face 
That my heart would fain remember, 

And my eye essay to trace. 
But like airy sprites they vanish, 

Shadowed forth, and swiftly gone, 
And their memories all I banish, 

All except one darling one. 



62 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

She, the angel of my morning, 

Noontide softly stole away, 
Now a brighter land adorning, 

Blooming in the eternal day. 
But she left a bosom lonely, 

Cold with grief, and dark with woe, 
Withered, pulseless, waiting only 

For the destined time to go. 



Ah ! to-night I feel the sorrow 

Of a heart that is alone, 
And in vain I try to borrow 

Soothing from the tempest's moan. 
Vain! from every object fading, 

She doth sadly gaze at me, 
And a soft face fills the shading 

That is formed by memory. 



Sadder, paler, shows the vision; 

Fainter shines the embers' glow; 
Slowly now that face Elysian 

Glides away like passing snow- 
Glides away, and leaves me mourning 

In the silence of the room, 
While the last faint ember burning 

Sickly lights the eerie gloom. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 63 

Outside still the snow is falling ; 

Inside is a heart as cold, 
All the latent joys recalling 

That illumed in days of old. 
Still recalling, yet not bringing 

Light or hope or peace to me, 
But a quenchless sorrow clinging 

Ever to their memory. 



WHEN COOL WINDS ARE BLOWING. 

When cool winds are blowing, I love to be 

rowing 
My merry boat down to where sweet Grade 

dwells, 
When the forests are ringing with laughter and 



And sweet briers scent Ballymulvy's lone 
dells. 
The blue leaping river I 'd sail on for ever 
To catch the fresh light of my cailv's young 
face 
And yellow locks shining, with white lilies twi- 
ning, 
Their splendour encrowning with beauty and 
grace. 



64 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

How pleasant to meet her, how joyous to greet 
her, 
Her lips flushing soft as she welcomes me in ; 
The wheel ever humming soon stops at my 
coming, 
For Gracie gets weary of trying to spin. 
We sit in the bower beside the gray tower, 
Where the tall beechen trees whisper tales to 
the moon. 
Such bright dreams they bring me, the sweet 
lays she sings me, 
That my poor throbbing heart beats in time to 
the tune. 

A-down the blue river my boat 's sailing ever, 

Since we lit the lealtin on the eve of St. John. 
We joined in the sporting, the dancing and 
courting— 
My young heart was stolen, and Grade's I won. 
That night I was dreaming, with fairy -like 
seeming, 
I sat on the gray walls by Inny's green side : 
The music was sounding, the dancers were 
bounding, 
And Gracie beside me, my own wedded bride. 

Oh ! if some kind fairy, on wings free and airy, 
Would steal her away to my home on the hill, 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 65" 

I M hide in my bosom my tender young blossom, 
As the ash-tree the violet by Shaskan's dark 
rill. 
When the evening shades quiver, we 'd sail down 
the river, 
By the old mossy weir where flossy crests run. 
And the gloom of the winter no longer could 
enter 
The hearth that was blessed by my Cailin das 
donn. 



THE EXILE'S LAST TOAST.* 

Darkly and coldly in that silent dAvelling 

The heavy sob burst through the tear-drops 

welling ; 
Darkly and coldly by that bed of sorrow 
She pressed the hand whose touch was froze the 

morrow, 
She gazed into those eyes now faintly dimming, 
That once with love's soft lustrous light were 

brimming. — 



* Founded on an incident taken from Mitchel's lecture 
on Thomas Devin Reillv. 

5 



66 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

She spoke — lie heeded not — his cheeks were 

flushing 
With dreams of that green land, whose fervour 

rushing 
Had nerved his soul in youth to front the dan- 
ger, 
To raise his arm and voice against the stranger, 
Th' accursed foe, whose savage might had parted 
That land and him, and left him broken-hearted. 

But wilder and wilder grew his look, 

And a strange light shone in his eye ; 
That soft white hand in his clasp he took, 

While his words drowned the bursting sigh : 
O love of my heart ! I 've not long to live, 
Yet ere I depart I 've a toast to give ; 
So bring me a bumper of sparkling wine, 
'T is the last will flash in this hand of mine. 

He raised him from the bed of death, 
And steadied each quivering limb, 
And took the cup with a trembling breath, 

And filled it high to the brim. 
Then his spirit swept back to the mountains 

wild, 
To the gushing streams and the green wood mild, 
To the cabin lone by the swelling river, 
Whose tide was crooning a sweet song ever ; 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 67 

And he thought of the burning hopes of old, 
Of the burnished banner of green and gold, 
Of the glowing thoughts and the fearless will, 
And the love that no tyrant hand could chill ; 
And he clutched the sword again in his hand 
'Mid the marshalled ranks of his mother-land. 
Thus rushed the past through his gallant soul 

With the force and strength of a surging river, 
And he kissed the wine in the flowing bowl, 

And pledged : " Old Erin's Isle for ever ! " 

The goblet fell to earth, he sank again, 

And drew his wife and infant to his breast, — 

No sigh escaped — no parting moan of pain ; 
His chains were broke — the exile was at rest. 



CHRISTMAS SONG. 

Brightly the embers are blazing, 
Brightly the festive cups shine ; 

Round the board soft eyes are gazing, 
Sparkling and radiant as wine. 

Faces long pale now are beaming 
With laughter and loving delight ; 



68 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

Clouds long unbroken are gleaming 
With flushes of moonlight to-night. 
Cead mille failte, old Christmas ! 

Merrilie dings the wild chime ; 
Cead mille failte, old Christmas ! 

Hurrah for the brave Christmas time ! 

Silent the mill-wheel of labour, 
Silent the office and mart — 
The soldier has sheathed his sabre, 

The student is merry at heart. 
Over the snow-misted heather 
Cottages mantle with light, 
While we sit toasting together 

The pleasures and hopes of the night. 
Cead mille failte, old Christmas ! 

Merrilie dings the wild chime ; 
Cead mille failte, old Christmas! 

Hurrah for the brave Christmas time ! 

Here 's to the brave men of Ireland, 

At home, or in exile away ; 
Here 's to the hopes of our sireland, 

That never will rust in decay. 
To every brave, down-trodden nation 

Here 's Liberty, glorious and bright ; 
But oh ! let our country's salvation 

Be toasted the warmest to-night ! 



EALLADS, SONGS. AND LEGENDS. 69 

Cead mille failte, old Christmas ! 

Merrilie dings the wild chime ; 
Cead mille failte, old Christmas ! 

Hurrah for the brave Christmas time ! 



CHARLEY MOE O'DONAHOE. 



Charley Mor O'Donahoe, 
I never thought that I 

Would find you without home or friends 
Beneath the frosty sky. 

1 did not dream, ten years ago, 

Beside your cheerful hearth, 
Its owner would be forced to roam 
An outcast o'er the earth. 

An' where are Shawn and Moran gone ? 

Where, where is little Grace, 
Whose eyes of blue would brighten up 

The passing traveller's face ? 
Where is the white house on the hill— 

The cornfields at its back — 
That Charley Mor O'Donahoe 

Must take the beggar's track ? 



70 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

The old man placed his long, thin hands 

Upon his trembling knee ; 
He rubbed the cold frost from his brow, 

And spoke me mournfullie ; 
Not in the jovial tones of old — 

The wild tongue of the Gael ; 
But in a broken, husky voice, 

Like a weary mourner's wail. 



" Oh ! is it you, avic machree, 

That I have met at last ? 
Oh ! wirrasthru / sure every word 

Eecalls the happy past — 
The reaping times, the mowing times, 

Where brown streams swiftly flow, 
When the lightest hearts were yours and min 

In the valleys of Mayo. 



Where is the white house on the hill ? 

'T was levelled to the ground 
By evil law and ruthless hands, 

And bayonets flashing round. 
We could not pay ' my lord' the rent, 

For cold and famine came ; 
And a hundred roofs, as well as mine, 

Were given to the flame ! 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 7i 

And Moran he was far away 

Beyond the western wave, 
And Shawn was standing calmly by 

As silent as the grave ; 
And Gracie clasped the olden post 

That stood beside the door, 
Her arms around my swelling neck, 

Till they dragged us from the floor. 



The moon was hid in mist that night, 

The freezing snow poured down, 
And ' Captain's' howling might be heard 

Far off in Westport town. 
Two forms crouched by the bleak wayside^ 

Like spectres there alone — 
I, with my darling in my arms — 

But where, oh ! where was Shawn ? 



Dawn came. I felt a heavy chill 

Creep through my freezing blood ; 
I felt a cold hand clutched in mine, 

And raised my colleen's hood. 
Do n't wonder if my sad heart broke 

And if my reason fled ! — 
White as the lily of the May, 

My darling child lay dead ! 



72 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

I heeded not the drifting sleet, 

I heeded not the wind, 
Nor did I hear a cautious foot 

Advancing from behind. 
A warm breath thawed the icy dew 

Upon my senseless brow ; — 
1 Avenged ! avenged ! a brother's hand 

Fulfilled a brother's vow'. 



Seven weeks she slept beneath the cross — 

Seven weeks her soul was free ; 
Full brightly rose the April sun — 

The birds sang merrilie. 
The streams dashed on with shout and song ; 

The breezes laughed in glee ; 
And Shawn was looking in my face 

Down from the gallows tree. 

He shot the landlord at his gate : 

An outlaw on the moor, 
They tracked him to his hiding place, 

And chained him fast and sure. 
I heard the clicking of a bolt, 

A deep and murm'ring prayer— 
A moment, and my bouchal bawn 

Was swinging in the air. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 73 

They buried him without a shroud 

Deep in the hilly clay. 
We came at midnight's dreary hour, 

And stole his corse away. 
We marched by many a lonely road, 

O'er many a moorland wide, 
To bear him to his mother's grave, 

And lay them side by side. 



As drifts a withered beechen leaf 

Across the lowland plain, 
Since then I roved from door to door 

In poverty and pain. 
A snow-white face is pressed to mine, 

Wherever I may go ; 
I hear the clicking of a bolt — 

I feel the heavy snow". 



" One is forgotten. Where is he ?" 

" On Fredericksburgh's grim height 
He fell when Meagher's men poured on, 

The vanguard of the fight. 
He died like an O'Donahoe, 

His rifle in his grasp, 
Old Ireland's name upon his lips 

Unto the latest gasp ". 



74 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

Down by the blazing fire we sat — 

My heart felt drear and lone, 
I thought upon brave Hugh O'Neil, 

Poor Emmet, and Wolfe Tone, 
And all the gallant efforts made 

To right the dear old land, 
But leaving only deeper trace 

Of the Invader's hand. 



MAIRE DHU. 

Her heart is mine — she told me so 
One winter's night a year ago. 
"She M rather wed her own spalpeen, 
Than be the haughty Saxon queen ". 
My coat was rough, my hands were hard,. 

And little wealth I had to woo ; 
But love had greater power than gold 

To win the heart of Maire Dhu. 



My love for her I cannot tell — 
'T is deep as lone Kilvalley's well, 
'T is pure as snow upon the hills, 
And gushing as Westmeath's wild rills* 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 75 

The well shall lose its sainted power, 
The mountain snow shall change its hue, 

When Connor's heart will cease to hold 
Thy image there, my Maire Dhu. 

Then come, astor, and be the light 
To make my humble cabin bright, 
And poverty's chill woes shall flee 
Before thy steps, gra gal machree. 
They talk of angels from the sky — 

My angel I will find in you ; 
And sure 't was angels from on high 

That taught that smile to Maire Dhu. 



I EAMBLED DOWN THE WOODLAND 
PATH. 

I rambled down the woodland path 
One Sunday evening lately, 
And I met there 
A maiden fair, 
A maiden proud and stately ; 
So beautiful she seemed to me, 
My young heart throbbed right joyfully; 
I called her my gra ban machree, 
That maiden proud and stately. 



76 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

The May-wind kissed her flowing hair, 
Like summer sun -rays twining, 
And oh ! her face 
Of loving grace, 
An apple-blossom shining. 
Her lips were red as Keenagh's rose, 
Her feet as light as mountain doe's, 
Her voice the fairy's song which flows 
"When starlit eves are shining. 

And many a time I Ve walked that path 
Those Sunday evenings lately, 
Still meeting there 
That maiden fair, 
With head erect and stately. 
She never gives a smile to me, 
But my young heart throbs joyfully, 
For she is my gra ban machree, 
That maiden proud and stately ! 



TWILIGHT MUSIC. 

The winter moon is shining, 
The pale blue air is still, 

A bright-eyed star is peeping 
Beyond lone Ardagh's hill, 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS, 77 

And from the far-off distance, 

Across the frosty lea, 
A strain of silvery music 

Floats hitherward to me. 



How softly, oh ! how softly 

The memories wander on 
Of faithful hearts long scattered, 

Young friendships dead and gone- 
Of eyes of laughing hazel, 

And cheeks of sunny sheen, 
The bright love of my boyhood, 

My dark-haired Kathaleen. 

A pathway through the woodland 

Lit by the August moon, 
The long grass dancing softly, 

The river's whispering tune — 
A form beside the trellis, 

Soft lips that welcomed me, 
Now resting with the shadows 

Far down beneath the sea. 

Float on, sweet twilight music ! 

Calm as a meadow stream, 
You bear the withered flowers 

Of many a broken dream. 



78 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

Again the moon shines brightly, 
The sycamores are green, 

And I sit beside the doorway 
With dark-haired Kathaleen 



ARCHBISHOP HUGHES. 

IN MEMORIAM. 

A murmur came across the sea, 
On lightning pinions swiftly sped, 

From the fair land of liberty — 

" The soldier of the Cross is dead". 

From north to south, from east to west, 
Responsive voices sing and sigh, 

" We 've given another to the blest — 
Another saint to God on high". 

He clasped the shamrock and the cross 
Throughout a long and noble life, 

Well may we now lament his loss ; 
For who '11 replace him in the strife ? 

On alien soil, far, far away, 

He ne'er forgot his island green ; 

Though blessings shone upon his way, 
He sighed for her, the crownless queen. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 79 

He blessed her in the matin hymn, 
He blessed her in the vigil prayer, 

And saw through vistas cold and dim 
The glory that she yet will wear. 

shepherd Priest ! O patriot Saint ! 

From thy bright resting-place above 
List to the sad and mournful plaint 

That rises from the land you love. 

Think of the want and woe and ruin, 
Think of the hearts in bondage vile, 

And beg of God to send us soon 
The holy light of Freedom's smile. 



KATHALEEN MACHREE. 

Air — Good night and joy be with you all. 

Oh ! sweetly in St. John's old keep 
At midnight sings the fairy choir 

Low melodies, that lull to sleep 
The weary peasant by the fire; 



80 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

And softly as a lover's dream 

The Shannon wakes a lay for me. 

But sweeter, softer still I deem 
The voice of Kathaleen Machree. 



Oh ! brightly falls the summer light 

Upon Roscommon's hills at eve, 
And wildly in the witching night 

Their golden web the moonbeams weave ; 
And mountain berries cluster fair, 

And heather bells are sweet to see : 
But richer, brighter are the hair 

And lips of Kathaleen Machree. 



Oh ! gently now the twilight breeze 

Wafts fragrance from the meadow side : 
But gentler waved the poplar trees 

The eve she said she 'd be my bride. 
How wearily from day to day 

The lagging moments come and flee ! 
Ah ! how I long for sunny May 

To wed my Kathaleen Machree ! 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 81 

DONAL KENNY. 

" Come, piper, play the ' Shaskan Reel', 

Or else the i Lasses on the heather', 
And, Mary, lay aside your wheel 

Until we dance once more together. 
At fair and pattern oft' before 

Of reels and jigs we Ve tripped full many ; 
But ne'er again this loved old floor 

Will feel the foot of Donal Kenny". 

Softly she rose and took his hand, 

And softly glided through the measure, 
While, clustering round, the village band 

Looked half in sorrow, half in pleasure. 
Warm blessings flowed from every lip 

As ceased the dancers' airy motion : 
Blessed Virgin! guide the ship 

Which bears bold Donal o'er the ocean I 

" Now God -be with you all !" he sighed, 

Adown his face the bright tears flowing — 
" God guard you well, civic", they cried, 

" Upon the strange path you are going". 
So full his breast, he scarce could speak, 

With burning grasp the stretched hands taking, 
He pressed a kiss on every cheek, 

And sobbed as if his heart was breaking. 

6 



82 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

" Boys, don't forget me when I 'm gone, 

For sake of all the days passed over — 
The days you spent on heath and bawn, 

With Donal Buadh, the rattlin' rover. 
Mary, agra, your soft brown eye 

Has willed my fate " (he whispered lowly) ; 
" Another holds thy heart : good bye ! 

Heaven grant you both its blessings holy !" 

A kiss upon her brow of snow, 

A rush across the moonlit meadow, 
Whose broom-clad hazels, trembling slow, 

The mossy boreen wrapped in shadow ; 
Away o'er Tully's bounding rill, 

And far beyond the Inny river ; 
One cheer on Carrick's rocky hill, 

And Donal Kenny 's gone for ever. 



The breezes whistled through the sails, 

O'er Galway Bay the ship was heaving, 
And smothered groans and bursting wails 

Told all the grief and pain of leaving. 
One form among that exiled band 

Of parting sorrow gave no token, 
Still was his breath, and cold his hand : 

For Donal Kenny's heart was broken. 



BALLADS, GONGS, AND LEGENDS. 83 

I 'M A EOUGH AND EEADY FELLOW. 

I 'm a rough and ready fellow, 

Honest, manly, stout, and true ; 
What I love, I love for ever ; 

What I say I always do ; 
Never bending bone or sinew 

At the throne of frowning might, 
But with hand and heart pulse always 

Banded in the cause of right, 
Like a rough and ready fellow 

Working in the cause of right. 

I 'in a rough and ready fellow, 

Seldom seen about the town, 
But you '11 find me on the mountains 

Far amid the heather brown. 
There I own a simple cabin, 

Sitting on the crags above, 
Where I live devoid of riches, 

Poor in everything but love, 
Like a rough and ready fellow, 

Scarce in everything but love. 

When the day's hot work is over 
And the pickaxe thrown aside, 

All my toil and care 's forgotten, 
With my children and my bride, 



84 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

By the hearth we sit together 
As the evening slides along, 

Telling quaint old wizard stories, 
Singing bursts of Irish song, 

Like a rough and ready fellow, 
Chanting bursts of Irish song. 

Hate I give to foreign tyrants, 

Foreign customs, foreign laws ; 
Love I pledge to dear old Ireland, 

To her glory and her cause. 
Through the lonely years I 'm waiting, 

Waiting for the promised time 
When I '11 stand beneath the banner, 

Chorusing the battle chime, 
Like a rough and ready fellow, 

Chorusing the battle chime. 



MY HOPE. 

I 've nursed one hope — I 've kept it long, 
Outliving all the dreams of childhood, 

It haunts me like some old, old song, 

In memories balmed, of rath and wildwood. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 85 

Though darkest sorrow fills the heart, 

And steeps the soul in misery, 
This cheering hope will ne'er depart — 

My land ! that I shall see thee free. 

They told me of the faith and truth 

That crowned thy years of ancient glory. 
And with the fiery soul of youth 

I pondered on the cherished story, 
Until, methought, I saw again 

The tall spears of thy chivalry 
Flash from the heather and the glen, 

In sunlit sheen, to make thee free. 

Filled with these proud, impulsive dreams, 

I wandered o'er the craggy mountain, 
Or musing watched the tinted gleams 

That sparkled from the rushy fountain, 
And oft I paced the ruined hall 

Of coulined chief and rapparee — 
In fancy striving to recall 

The golden days when thou wert free. 

And thus the purpose of my life 

In strength and force was gaining ever — 

That burning spirit for the strife 

Of freedom's war — of high endeavour ; 



86 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

Still round my heart these yearnings twine 
As ivy clasps the forest tree — 

Still, still I hope, and still I pine, 
My own dear land, to see thee free. 

O brothers ! let this hope inspire 

Your bosoms too with manly spirit ; 
Oh, let it fan that sacred fire 

Which men in every clime inherit : 
Soul bound to soul — hand clasping hand, 

We '11 trample on foul slavery, 
And, crowned with glory, take our stand 

Among the noble and the free. 



O'SIONACH'S DAUGHTER. 

My noble hound ! we chase no more 

The deer upon Slieve Galriegh's heather ; 
Our gallant sport and joy are o'er, 

And here we sit and pine together. 
Alas ! the day we first did stray 

Down by the Inny's bounding water, 
When I beheld that gleaming ray 

Of light and love, O'Sionach's daughter. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 87 

The summer radiance, like a bride, 

Now fondly clasps the purple mountain, 
And summer breezes ranging wide 

The music bear of bird and fountain ; 
But nought can soothe my weary heart, 

Since by the Inny's bounding water 
Wild love within my breast did start 

For that fair sprite, O'Sionach's daughter,, 

When others quaff the purple wine, 

Or list the wild harp sounding mellow, 
I 'm dreaming of her face divine, 

Her soft blue eyes and ringlets yellow : 
I 'm dreaming of her cabin fair, 

Down by the Inny's bounding water — 
Oh ! would that I were dwelling there, 

To love and guard O'Sionach's daughter. 

My noble hound ! my faithful hound, 

You share your master's dreary sadness — 
No longer Mornan's woods resound 

The echo of thy bay of gladness ; 
But at my feet in grief you lie, 

While here I pine for Inny's water, 
The silvery tones and laughing eye 

Of that fair sprite, O'Sionach's daughter. 



88 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

LIVE 1SOT SLAVES. 

" Youth of Ireland, live not slaveb". — O'Connell. 

"Live not slaves, O youth of Ireland!" — 

Thus the mighty Tribune spoke — 
" Live not slavish, dastard cravens, 

Cringers 'neath an alien's yoke. 
Think upon your famished brethren, 

Think upon your fathers' graves ; 
By their glories and their sorrows, 

Youth of Ireland, live not slaves !" 

" Live not slaves" — this holy teaching 

Is our cherished creed to-day — 
Kneel you not to kingly idols — 

Be not worshippers of clay ! 
For our God has placed within you 

Springs of manliness and truth, 
Flashing back in radiant glory, 

All the splendid dreams of youth. 

Pathways two fall on your vision — 
One, the rugged path of right ; 

Soft and flowery is the other 

Course of wrong and golden might ; 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 89 

Over one an angel 's winging — 

O'er the other fiends of wrath ; 
Toil and freedom ! ease and slavery ! 

Youth of Ireland, choose your path ! 

Will ye crouch to silken hirelings ? 

Will ye bend for gear and gold ? 
Will ye sell youth's priceless treasure, 

Or forsake the faith of old ? 
Will you part your love of Ireland 

For the love of Ireland's foe ? 
Hark ! a million voices pealing, 

Fierce as thunder, answer, "No". 

Forward, then, and lead the vanguard, 

Girt with manliness and truth ; 
Wrap the sunburst round your bosoms, 

In the fervid love of youth : 
Forward, then, on freedom's mission, 

Over chains and over graves, 
And our country shall no longer 

Be the dwelling-place of slaves. 



90 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

IN MEMORIAM. 

Rev. John Mulvihill, O.C.C., obiit May 23, 1864. 

The bright May sun its radiance shed, 
But nought could penetrate the gloom 
"Which settled on that silent room, 

Where he, the meek and pure, lay dead. 

A blossom severed from the tree — 
A pillar taken from the dome 
To stand in God's bright happy home. 

In peace and joy eternally. 

He fought the fight — he 's now at rest : 
Ere half his earthly race was past 
The fetters from his soul he cast — 

To sleep upon his Saviour's breast. 

The lowly walks of life he trod 

In search of sin and misery, 

To set the slave of Satan free, 
And lead the wanderer back to God. 

His words unto the heart were balm, 
His hand upraised the fallen one, 
The tempest of the past was gone — 

He was the spirit of the calm. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 91 

But now the crown is on his brow — 
He sees the Mother " full of grace", 
The Saviour's mercy-beaming face, 

The millions that before Him bow. 

Sleep ! sleep ! our heart's beloved one ; 
Sleep where the red-breast thrills his lay, 
Where fairest bloom the flowers of May — . 

Sleep, sleep, thy mission here is done. 

Sleep while we drop the chilling tear, 
The tear of sorrow for thy loss, 
Thou faithful bearer of the cross, 

Above thy fOrm now resting here. 



WATCH AND WAIT. 

Watch and wait, boys, watch and wait. 

Let it be our motto ever — 
Foolish zeal, unguarded hate, 

Often baulks a brave endeavour : 
God ordains, boys, God ordains, 

That we pine a little longer, 
Ere we burst the galling chains, 

Ere we crush the brutal wronger. 



92 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

Watch and wait, boys, keep your swords 

Ever flashing sharp and ready, 
Heed them not, the scoffer's words — 

Forward, forward, true and steady. 
In good time, boys, in good time, 

We shall lift the fallen banner, 
And with trust and hope sublime 

March to liberty and honour. 



BANNATH LATH. 

To P. D v. 

O noble friend ! gallant friend ! 
God's blessing guard you to the end ; 
God's wisdom be your guide and stay 
On stranger paths in lands away : 
This is the prayer of those who see 
A brother lost in parting thee. 

True was your heart, and brave your hand, 
And warm your love for native land ; 
Your breast a pure and gushing tide 
Of Irish love, and Irish pride — 
Of Irish trust, and Irish faith, 
And purpose changeless until death. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 93 

Gone from our vanguard — gone away — 
Over the bursting seethiug spray ; 
Far from the green-encrested hills, 
Far from the purple sainted rills — 
Gone in the flush of budding years 
To join the wide world's pioneers. 

O noble friend ! gallant friend ! 
God's blessing guard you to the end ; 
God's wisdom be your guide and stay 
On stranger paths in lands away. 
This is the prayer of those who see 
A brother lost in parting thee. 



COSTELLOE'S LAMENT. 

Along the plains of Mayo the wild deer wanders 

free, 
The summer shines in glory, but shineth not for 

me ; 
I feel no breeze at twilight, I see no light at 

dawn, 
But I sing a threne of sorrow for my darling 

Una ban. 



94 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

The light is quenched for ever in proud McDon- 
nell's hall, 

The harp-song 's hushed all lonely within its 
towers tall, 

The banshee to the brown streams for evermore 
doth call, 

And my true love ne'er shall waken from the cold 
earth's heavy thrall. 



Along the plains of Mayo the wild deer swiftly 
springs, 

Along the plains of Mayo the hunting bugle 
rings, 

My gallant steed is restless, for my strong hand 
's on the rein, 

But his prancing hoof shall never touch the hunt- 
ing ground again. 



My sword is rusty in its sheath — that blade 
whose waving glance 

Flash'd death to many a lion foe of brave and 
generous France ; 

The ribbon from my true love's neck twines 
round its hilt of gold, 

But the snowy hand that placed it there is pulse- 
less now and cold. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 95 

I rode in joy and gladness over heathy hill and 

plain — 
I rode in grief and madness on my homeward 

way again, 
For I saw the snow-white rockets tremble coldly 

in the night, 
And my heart grew dark as rainclouds when the 

stars refuse their light. 



I wear within my doublet a bright lock of her 

hair 
That she gave me, when we parted, from her 

tresses curling fair ; 
'T is all I have to soothe my woe throughout the 

coming years — 
'T is all I have to bear away the traces of my 

tears. 



Oh ! bring me back my own true love, and place 
her by my side, 

As on the harvest evening that I asked her for 
my bride, 

And all the lords of Connaught with their fear- 
less riding men 

Would fail to take my darling from my loving 
arms again. 



96 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

I '11 get my brave steed ready, and I '11 ride far, 
far away — 

I '11 get my brave steed ready, and lide the live- 
long day, 

Until I find my Una's grave in Kilmacneevan 
gray, 

And pluck a flower from its flowers, and kiss its 
cold, cold clay. 



THE OLD DAYS. 

By the Inny's tide I sit while the sun is drooping 
low, 

And I dream a wizard dream of the old days long 
ago, 

"Wlien my life was flowing sweet as the merry 
linnet's song, 

Or the " Shrughan" in the glen breathing melo- 
dies along. 

Then I had a true, true love, and of pleasant 

friends go leor, 
And my hekrt was rich and bright as a mine of 

silver ore : 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS, 97 

I was lightest in the dance — I was swiftest with 
the ball, 

And my harp and voice were first at the bright- 
eyed maiden's call. 



'T was the dewy dawn of youth, and my longing 

eye could see, 
In the days a-coming on, the old banners shining 

free ; 
I could hear the marching clans, and the battle's 

fiery strain, 
As when Bryan on Clontarf smote to earth the 

pirate Dane. 

I would gird O'Byrne's sword 'gainst the robbers 

of the Pale, 
On the field of Beal-ana-buidhe I could charge 

with Aodh O'Neil, 
Spur upon a moonlight raid with the daring 

Eapparee, 
Or on Aughrim's deadly plain charge with Sars- 

field's chivalry. 

But the wintry days are come, and the summer 
days are o'er, 

And the years are thronging fast round the weary- 
troubadour ; 

7 



98 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

All my friends are dead and gone, scattered wide 

o'er sea and land, 
And like to a pillar lone 'mid the ruins now I 

stand. 



Freedom's battle is unfought — freedom's flag is 

folded still, 
There is silence in the hall, there is silence on the 

hill, 
There is rust upon the spear, but the hopes are 

still the same, 
And the smouldered ashes yet will be kindled 

to a flame. 



I have strayed for many a day on the sunny soil 

of France, 
O'er the noble hills of Spain, and where Tiber's 

waters glance — 
Roving free and roving wild, yet the breath of 

every gale 
Bore my sighs and my yearnings back to the glens 

of Inisfail. 



By my native stream again now I sit all lonelily, 
My harp and wild old lays all the past has left 
to me, 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 99 

And I hear an angel voice whisper soft as harvest 

rain, 
" Sing a song, O minstrel ! sing of thy youthful 

days again". 

So as the twilight shade steals adown the Shruel 

dells, 
I will chant a merry lay to the dancing heather 

bells, 
Till the old days and their dreams, like a mine of 

hidden ore, 
Come to glad the weary breast of the wand'ring 

troubadour. 



KATHALEEN. 

A SUN-PICTUKE. 

Bright lustrous eyes that shed a light 

As soft as sunlight on the meadow ; 
Black flowing hair and forehead white, 

Like snow wreath 'neath a mountain shadow 
Two flushing lips which never part, 

Save when they murmur music airy, 
The breathings of a gladsome heart, 

As light and careless as a fairy. 

LifC. 



100 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

She shines before me like a glance 

Of angel radiance flung from heaven- 
She haunts my soul in dreaming trance 

At pale-faced morn and amber even : 
Before my spirit ever gleams 

The saintly outline of that vision, 
A portrait fair, a gem that seems 

Half born of earth and half elysian. 



HOW HAVE YE LABOURED? 

As starlight on the sleeping earth 
My early thoughts came to my soul 
That mourned in bitterness and dole, 

Of truth and trust the fearful dearth. 

I thought of all my early dreams — 

The young hearts marshalled for the light, 
When Eight would march o'er brutal Migrt, 
And men, in beauty's harness dight, 

Quaff flashing draughts of Spartan streams. 

When labour strong and proud would raise 
Its sinewed hand to seize the crown, 

And loudly chant its marching lays, 

With God's sweet smile a-°lancing down. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 101 

When blackened walls should cease to pain 
The gaze of Christian manhood's eye ; 

When forms once swept by sleet and rain 

By blazing hearths might sit again, 
And smile at tempests warring by. 



And freemen stand on hill and rock, 
No master but the Lord above, 
And banners long in darkness hid 
Shine like a blazing pyramid, 
And brethren learn their hearts to lock 
In the strong clasp of angel love. 



All unfulfilled. The earth is dark 
As ever with the lust of wrong ; 

Christ's children wander pale and stark 
Amid the red assassin throng. 



And some ask madly, " Where is God ?" 

With boiling veins and streaming eyes, 
They blame His justice-dealing rod ; 

They hear no calm voice from the skies : 
" How have ye laboured, men of earth, 
To win regenerating birth ?" 



102 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

And others whine, with slavish bow, 

"The crowning day will shortly come — 
Till then we sit in martyrdom ; 
Once we had dreams — we spurn them now". 
"How have ye laboured? martyrs, tell", 
Rings out the ceaseless voiceful bell. 

And I, too, in my frenzy, held 

Reproachful thoughts, that all my dreams 
Had faded like the four bright streams 
Which once in beauteous Eden welled. 

How have you laboured — minstrel, say ! — 
To raise your visions from the clay ? 

" How have you laboured ?" This is all, 

O teachers of our fallen land ! 
To free the stricken one from thrall 

Have ye obeyed the Lord's command 
As erst the faithless-hearted Saul, 

Or walked with David and his band ? 

Ah me ! my heart is full of dole — 
The myriads pass with faces white— 

I hear a still voice in my soul : 
" Ye did not labour well and true, 
As the appointed men should do 

Who lead the strife of truth and right". 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS, 103 



AN EXILE'S SONG. 

What am I thinking of all the day ? 

What am I dreaming of all the night ? 
Why am I sighing when all are gay, 

And gloomy 'mid scenes that are fair and 
bright ? 
Answer it, burning and lonely heart ! 

Answer it, leagues of ocean foam, 
That widely, darkly, and drearily part 

The wandering Celt from his native home ! 



I was a child in faith and years, 

When I placed my foot on the out-bound ship, 
But the tears that trickled were manhood's tears, 

As the sunlit prow in the wave did dip. 
The faces grew dim upon the shore, 

And the mountains vanished in mist away, 
And a still voice whispered me : " Nevermore 

Shall your eyes look out on your native bay !" 



And I thought of Tom, and my brother Ned, 
And Katie, the dearest to me of all ; 

And I thought of my mother, so cold and dead, 
'Neath the holy shade of the abbey wall ; 



104 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

I thought of the cabin beside the heath, 
Of the daily toil, and the twilight rest, 

Till I prayed that the cold, cold hand of death 
Might bear me away to my mother's breast. 



'T is twenty years since that bitter day ; 

1 have learned the sweetness of being free- 
But the pulse still beats for the homeward way, 

For the olden loves beyond the sea. 
The bright stars shine on my sunbrown face, 

And they find no answering light is there- 
No light from the child of a scattered race, 

Save the sickly gleam of a dark despair. 



And hopes are whispered in words of flame 
That the days of my country's wrongs shall 
pass 
Full soon away, and the slavish shame 

Be trampled to earth like new-mown grass ; 
That the scattered shall dwell by their native 
hearth, 
In their ancient strength and their ancient 
pride ; 
That they '11 gather from . ends of the farthest 
. earth, 
To conquer or die, as their fathers died. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 105 

And I dream of this in the silent night, 

And it fills my soul in the open day, 
While I fancy the grand and glorious sight 

Of the exiles crossing the homeward way ! 
But sadness will steal in spite of all, 

And a dim foreboding I ne'er shall see 
The mossy side of the abbey wall, 

Or the shining flag of a people free ! 



Oh ! sing me a song of home, true love ! 

A ringing song of the brave old times ; 
And voices will whisper from heaven above 

A soothing tone on the rushing chimes. 
Let it bound along on the twilight air, 

Like the charge and tramp of conquering men, 
' To banish the cloud of my dark despair, 

And light my soul with new hope again ! 



REVE D' UNE VIE. 

Ear out upon the heaving sea 

The young moon looks in stillness fail ; 
And wild and sad and mournfully 

Fresh breezes haunt the autumn air. 



106 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS, 

All lonely at the window pane 

A watcher sits while, one by one, 
The scenes of years steal in again, 
Like hues of a departed sun, 

The pictured dreams of olden times, 
Rolled in the light of scattered climes. 

Full fifty years, and boyhood's space 

Comes back arrayed in sunsets brown — 
The merry songs, the ancient place, 

And gray-arched bridge below the town — 
The " inch" girt by the Inny's wave, 

Where sword-leaves hid the wild duck's nest, 
The snow-white rock, the fairy's cave, 

The meadows sloping to the west — 
The prayer beside the mother's knee — 
The legends of the vanithee. 

They enter in from spirit lands, 

As leaves borne on a rushing stream :. 
He clasps again the friendly hands — 

The loving glances on him beam. 
He hears, far o'er the dewy hill, 

The hunting horn's wild melody ; 
He sees the " hedge-school", where the rill 

Mimicked the schoolboys' careless glee ; 
And strays along the violet path 
That circled Creevagh's haunted rath. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 107 

gray old bridge ! what shadows slide 

Down from thy battlements so lone ! 
home upon the white hill- side, 

Are all thy owners dead and gone ? 
" Dead, dead and gone", a voice replies 

Low from the cascades' echoed song — 
Dead, dead and gone ! — but in the skies 

They mingle with the seraph throng ; 
One wanderer treads the earthly land 
Of all the loved and loving band. 



Weave, weave the web, memory ! 

A dim bark skims the moonlit foam, 
And bears to beauteous Italy 

A bright boy from his Irish home. 
He stands upon the deck, his eye 

Rests on a stilly western star — 
Mo nuar! the yearning heart must fly 

To that sweet resting- spot afar — 

The old white rock, the island brown, 
And bridge of Ballymahon town. 



The halls of Eome are grand and fair, 
And flashed with purple light and gold - y 

But oh ! to breathe the summer air 

That blew through Ballymulvey's wold. 



108 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

JUl day the weariness and hum, 

But evening brings the vesper chimes, 
And all the bursts of feeling come 

That filled the breast in vanished times— 
This memoried spot, life's changeful dream, 
That home beside the Inny's stream. 

To pray and labour, work and win, 

And learn God's holy eloquence, 
To measure blades with death and sin 

In all the trust of innocence, 
To dwell amid the glorious past 

And keep youth's pulses firmly strung, 
And hold with memory firm and fast 

The lessons of his earliest tongue — 
So lived the boy till manhood came, 
Crowned with the wreath of truth and fame. 

Weave, weave the web, memory ! 

The threads knit closer, one by one : 
Again a bright bark skims the sea, 

With prow bent to the setting sun ; 
The wanderer on the brown deck stands, 

And gazes on the far sea-rim ; 
He thinks no more of foreign lands — 

That wide expanse holds all for him — 
The star that blossomed in his sky, 
To which his heart would ever fly. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 109 

He steps upon his native soil — 

Where was the light that filled his years ? 
Still, still the ceaseless weight of toil, 

The prayer, the hope, the lonely tears. 
The decades roll in girded space — 

. Time adds fresh flowers to every grave — 
He may not see the olden place, 
Or stand beside the olden wave ; 

The Saviour's work must yet be done— • 
The glorious crown is still unwon. 



And so, as winds steal from the sea, 

And autumn's moon is pacing slow, 
All sad and sweet and mournfully 

The treasured visions inward flow. 
He sits beside the window frame, 

And dreams a dream of sunsets brown ; 
He sees the gray-arched bridge again, 

The lonely inch, the silent town, 
And every fond and loving face 
That lit life's only resting-place. 



110 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

DARKNESS. 

(AFTER THE GERMAN.) 

I bend my head before the shining moon, 
For oh ! I cannot look upon its face ; 

It bears my memory back too soon, too soon 
To the old love — and olden dwelling-place. 



I cannot breathe the sweetness of the air — 
That flower perfumed is hanging on my lips ; 

I cannot look upon the ocean fair 

Where the white gull its homeward pinion dips. 



My sorrow s too great for scenes like these ; 

Give me the bitterness of death and gloom, 
Give me the storm-wind of the icy seas, 

Give me the silence of the grass-grown tomb. 



Away, bright eyes ! I may not dream of you— 
Oh ! shed no light upon my wild despair ; 

O throbbing heart, thy pulse is beating true — ' 
Why dream of flowers where every plant 's a 
tare? 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. Ill 

It is His will, my soul a mausoleum 

Of blighted hopes — the ghosts of things that 
were — 
When will the seal be closed upon the dream ? 

When will I cease to think of love and her ? 



THE GRAVE AND THE PRISON. 

" Our dead shall be the seed of their decay, 
Our survivors be tbe shadow of their pride, 
Our adversity a dream to pass away, 

Their dishonour a remembrance to abide". 

Shelley. 

Bear ye fresh flowers, dark-haired maidens, 

Weeping in silence sadly ! 
Place them around the felon's bier ; 
Chant his death- song, but drop no tear ; 
He died in the summer of the year — 

For his love he died full gladly. 

Spirits who dwell by freedom's throne — 

The throne of the bright and glorious God — 

Waft his soul to your starry zone, 

Far, far, away from the tyrant's rod — 

Save ! oh ! save 
The doomed of the prison and the grave ! 



112 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS, 

Strong men, brave men of Ireland, 
List to a tale of blood and wrong ; 

Eest for awhile from your bitter toil, 

And fill your souls with a mourner's song,. 

He was brave and kind and true, 
Brave and kind as man could be — ■ 

Virtue and he together grew, 
Entwined as ivy round a tree. 

All that was beautiful and fair, 

He loved with spirit wild and grand— 

His native hills, his native air, 
And all in all his native land. 

And she was trodden in the dust, 
And eaten by the cankered sore 
Of fierce oppressors : o'er and o'er 

Her blood-dyed manacles did rust. 

Till young blood boiled within the veins, 
And men grew fierce with misery. 
The thousand-banded, column on column,. 
Swore with a purpose firm and solemn — 
Swore before God to break the chains, 
And set their fallen country free. 
Standing in faith and truth and honour,. 
Of the first was he, beneath the banner* 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 113 
* * * * * * 

The bloodhounds loosened from the leash, 
Eed bayonets flashing o'er the land, 

The arms to lead, the brains to teach, 

Clasped in the prison's deadly reach : 

Firm as a mass of mountain rock, 

Up in the felon-traitor's dock, 

Calmly and proudly he took his stand. 

And he was guilty found— 

A traitor to a foreign foe ! 
Guilt ! it was guilt to stop the flow 
Of Ireland's stream of toil and wo! 
Guilt ! it was guilt to right the wrong — 
To crush the base and brutal strong, 
To make our homes as homes should be, 
The dwellings of the pure and free. 

Yes, he was guilty ; firmly there, 
Fronting the judge's coward stare, 
With all the hatred of his race 
He flung it in each foeman's face, 
The die was cast — no hand to save- — 
The prison first, and then the grave. 

Sweetly, sweetly the wild birds siug, 

In the budding leaves by the river Lee — 

S 



114 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

But faces were pale and hearts were wan 

In a convict ship on the open sea- — 
Gaily, gaily the young breeze laughed 
With the tones of the twilight bell ; 
No music can fall on the lonely ear 
Save the warder's tramp thro' the windings dreai^ 
Or the muttered hum and the breathing hoarse 
Of the forger's sigh and the murderer's curse, 
In an English prison cell. 

Sing how starvation cut its way, 
Till the spirit burst from its shroud of clay ; 
Of the dreams that rushed across the soul, 
Of the wild, wild pant beyond control, 
And the muttered chant of the dismal slave, 
" Thy doom is the prison and the grave". 

Sing of that dim, and wild, and fearful Lour, 

When none were near to whisper one " good- 
bye", 
No sister's eye to pour the dewy shower, 

No brother's clasp to teach him how to die — 
Sing, spirits, sing, who watched above his head, 

Whose bright wings closed around his crosslesi 
breast, 
Tell how the Saviour's Image was denied 

An entrance to that lonely prison bed, 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 115 

To make his dying hours calm and blest — 

Whisper, oh ! whisper, how the assassin died — 
Ruler and priest, with an iron hand 
Stamped on his name that hellish brand. 

Miserere — miserere — 

Cold and dead he lies at last ; 
Miserere — miserere — 

All his earthly dream is past. 
Let us pray, oh ! let us pray, 
He shines in God's bright smile to-day. 

Mi serere — miserere — 

Tell the holy rosary ; 
Miserere— miserere — 

Chant the prayer from sea to sea, 

That God will save from woe, and dole, 
And agony, the martyr's soul. 

Grave his name upon your hearts, 

Tell it to your children too ; 
Vow, until your life departs, 
Ye and they will be as true — 

True, to the shedding of your blood, 
For hapless Ireland's nationhood. 



116 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

ST. K1LIAN. 

A LAY OF THE EARLY MISSIONARY DAYS. 

Many a tower and mist -crowned castle standeth 

on thy banks, O Rhine — 
Many a legend wmgeth onward from that silver 

wave of thine, 
Marvels strange, and deeds of glory, wrought by 

peasant, priest, and peer ; 
So we steal one from thy garland in the dark 

days of the year. 
'T was a tall Franconian woodman told this story 

once to me, 
As we stood beneath the vine-porch, with the 

corn-moon on the lea, 
And I sit beside the hearthstone — wandering 

bard and seanachie, 
Chanting forth this golden legend of the time 

when we were free. 

i. 

Showeth how St. Kilian spent his infancy. 

Nursed beneath an Irish mountain, by an Irish 

mother's hand, 
Where the wild Borora whispers to the meadows 

of the land, 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 117 

Taught the music of the harper and the anthems 

of the blest, 
Kilian grew as grows the ash-tree by the rivers of 

the west. 

Winter stars that light in splendour Eire's calm 

and solemn sky, 
Might have borrowed their chaste brightness from 

the gleaming of his eye ; 
The young lily bending lonely when the dew is 

in the air, 
Was a type of his meek spirit when his young 

lips moved in prayer. 

And the angel, who at sunset bore on pearly- 
bordered wings 

The libations of his spirit upward to the King of 
kings, 

Whispered in a thrilling whisper to his eager 
listening ear, 

Dreams of where the nations knew not God, His 
teachings, love, or fear. 

In his bosom burned a feeling — it was wondrous, 
wild, and strange — 

On the mission of his Saviour through those far- 
off lands to range, 



118 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

As the autumn sun diffuses light on plain and 

mountain side, 
So his lips would breathe the sunlight of Christ's 

Spirit far and wide. 

Year on year was gathering o'er him, summers 

came and summers fled, 
And they only found him closer to his Master's 

service wed, 
And the chieftains clustered round him, and the 

war- clans broke their swords, 
For the battle-clouds were scattered at the music 

of his words. 

Oh ! they sing the fame of Fergus, son of Roy, 
whose silver string 

In the halls of proud Emania won the hearts of 
thane and king, i 

And they tell of glorious Niall, and his knights 
so fierce and tall ; 

But the Saviour's humble servant in his cell sur- 
passed them all. 

II. 

Shoireth. how St. Kilian sailed to Iona and thence to Ganl on his 
mission. 

Shooting on by lonely Rathlin skims a currach on 
the sea, 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 119 

And it shineth like a snow-flake when the green 

is on the lea, 
Eests a bird with crest engoldened where the 

wind-gusts gently stream — 
'T is the angel-pilot watching the fulfilment of a 

dream. 



And there sit within the vessel, with their faces 

to the land, 
Long white beards and eyes of beauty, looking 

back — a silent band ; 
From the green hills of their country, fairy streams 

and mountains gray, 
On the service of their Master they are voyaging 

away. 

" Farewell — farewell to Eire — Lord, Thy will be 
done on earth", 

Sang they to the shining billow, with celestial 
voice of mirth ; 

But their brows grew white as marble, and a sad- 
ness filled their song, 

As they heard no more the voices in the hallowed 
walls of Cong. 

Tarried they in fair Iona till they broke the 
blessed bread, 



120 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

And their Master's holy benison was poured upon 

each head — 
Then St. Kilian led the seapath to the shores of 

beauteous Gaul, 
Where they sang a proud Te Deum, free from 

sinful care or thrall. 



Did he think of lordly Mullagh, or Borora's brown- 
eyed stream, 

Of the bright days of his childhood, and his 
country's sunny gleam ? 

No, he saw but far Franconia, with its skies of 
tesseled blue, 

And the crown and palm his bosom was a-yearn- 
ever to. 



Showetb, after the conversion of Duke Gosbert and his subjects, 
how the Saint appeared at a feast to warn him of the sins com- 
mitted by him through his Queen, Geilana. 

Lemoned with the twilight glory, stretched the 

mountains west and east, 
And Duke Gosbert and his nobles sat before the 

kingly feast. 
They had learned the name of Jesus — they had 

bent the mail-clad knee, 
At the soft words of the strangers who had come 

across the sea. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 121 

Danced a bright smile o'er their faces, as the 

proud and dark-eyed queen 
Bent her arm to lift the goblet glistening o'er 

in jewelled sheen, 
And the shouts arose as billows heave above the 

driving ships, 
When she pledged her lord and master with the 

red wine to her lips. 



But the red wine was untasted, and the soft 

cheeks lost their blood, 
For before her in the door-way the Apostle 

calmly stood ; 
Back he flung his hooded mantle, raised his hand, 

and sternly spoke, 
" Thou 'rt not Gosbert's wife — Geilana ! and this 

union must be broke. 



" Prince ! upon thy noble forehead the baptismal 

waters fell, 
Shall the dark eyes of a woman lead thy footsteps 

down to Hell ? 
Wilt thou sacrifice the glory that awaiteth thee 

above, 
For the poor and fleeting pleasure of a false and 

earthly love ? 



122 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

" Not in anger, but in mercy, doth the Lord look 

down on all ; 
Bow in sorrow, Geilana ! as Magdalen weep 

thy fall. 
Thou shalt like unto the flower withered in the 

freezing snow, 
When the April sunbeams woo it, burst anew to 

youthful glow". 



Eose up Gosbert, and above him whirled his 

deadly flashing blade, 
" On to-morrow, God of Battles, I invoke thy po- 
tent aid- 
On to-morrow, ere the mountains feel the last kiss 

of the sun, 
If I conquer, what thy servant, Kilian, sayeth 
shall be done. 



" Since a youth of beardless visage, when I first 

girt on my sword, 
None can say in camp or castle that I ever broke 

my word. 
Now thy blessing, holy Kilian" — and they knelt 

down one by one, 
While Geilana, brooding vengeance, from the 

banquet hall was gone. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 123 

IV. 

Showeth how St. Kilian was martyred at Geilana's instigation. 

'T was the midnight hour that found them kneel- 
ing at the sacred shrine, 

Kilian and his companions, hallowed with a light 
divine ; 

Wandered back his memory's pulses to the lonely 
Breffni glen, 

And the mountain and the river he was ne'er to 
see again. 

Fluttered past him in the darkness with the gold- 

encrested head, 
The sweet bird whose dulcet music ever charmed 

his nightly bed, 
'T was the signal that the hour of his boyhood's 

dream was nigh, 
When his head would wear the nimbus of the 

martyred ones on high. 



Hush ! to-night we break for ever through the 

dark earth's chilly bars ; 
Make you ready, for the angels trace a pathway 

through the stars. 



124 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

Shone a bright streak in the darkness, and the 

red assassin's hand 
Pierced the pure breasts of St. Kilian, and the 

chosen of his band ! 

So they fell before the altar at their loving Mas- 
ter's feet, 

With their brethren watching eagerly their com- 
ing home to greet, 

And the morning found them lying, faces turned 
to the sky, 

Telling truly how St. Patrick taught his followers 
to die ! 

And the heart whose deadly passion edged the 

keen and savage blade, 
Burst in madness as an earthquake tearing 

through a forest glade, 
For Geilana wandered wildly o'er the country 

far and wide, 
With the maniac brand upon her, till, by Heaven 

accursed, she died. 

How St. Kilian's name was honoured in the mys- 
tic German land, 

How the pilgrim read his history in cathedrals 
tall and grand, 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 125 

Sung the silvery bells of Wurtzburg in a peal 

of melody, 
Through the blue mist of the twilight as this tale 

was told to me. 

v. 

What the hard beholdeth in the birth-place of St. Kilian. 

Home again — in noble Breffni — filled with yearn- 
ings of the past, 

Stood I on the Mullagh mountain as the sun's last 
line was cast, 

And I thought upon the evening far away in 
Germany, 

When my ears drank in the story which the 
woodman told to me. 

Upward rose a peal of music : 't was the angelus 

was sung, 
And my pulse was thrilling wildly at the bell's 

celestial tongue ; 
For the dreams of years of childhood came upon 

my heart ao;ain, 
And the wanderer's heart was soothed by the 

calm and si.very strain. 

'T was a fairy land of echoes, for full many a 
league around 



126 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

Swelled that song in strains responsive to the 

first awakening sound, 
And like purple clouds in summer gathering 

round the mountain's crest, 
So the past with all its memories closed around 

my saddened breast. 

Is that Wurtzburg's shining tower ? Do I stand 

on Celtic soil? 
Yonder church was built, good minstrel, by the 

lowly sons of toil. 
'T was the Mullagh peasants' sinew raised on 

high that beauteous pile, 
That the bright eyes of Saint Kilian on his home 

might ever smile. 

" Blessings on them", then I answered ; " God be 

thanked, the brave old race 
In the pathway of their fathers hold the same 

unchanging place,— 
Here Saint Kilian 's memory dwelletli by Borora's 

brown-eyed rill, 
As if foreign banner never floated on an Irish 

hill". 

Ye who 've wandered in my footsteps through 
this legend brave and old, 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 127 

Help ye, as a brother helpeth, with your blessing, 

strength, and gold — 
Help ye those who rear this trophy through the 

ages to live on, 
Tellino- of the martyr's glory when the minstrel's 

lay is gone. 



THE LADY NUALA'S MEMORIAL. 
A.D. 1474. 

(INSCRIBED TO C. P. M.) 

[See the beautiful papers, " Noctes Lovanienses", from the pen of 
the Rev. C. P. Meehan, M.R.I.A., in the first series of Duffy's Hiber- 
nian Magazine, for the mateiials on which this poem is written. 
I may observe that to those who wish to get information on a very 
stirring period of Irish history, those papers are invaluable, and 
show the research and ability for which the author of the Confede- 
ration is justly celebrated.] 

Why rides the Lady Nuala o'er Gal way's pleasant 

plain, 
With such a host of galloglach and kerne in her 

train, 
And beauteous ladyes shining in the costly silks 

of Spain ? 

The fathers of St. Francis in Rossriel cloisters 
sate, 



128 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

And they pondered on the sanctity and fervour 

of their state, 
When they saw a gallant companie ride towards 

the Abbey gate. 

The sun flashed from the bright catbharrs and 

harness dight with gold, 
And spear-points thick as hazel stems within a 

mountain wold, 
And a lovely ladye led them on, like Judith 

famed of old. 

" Oh ! tell us, noble ladye, what brings this host- 
ing here ? 

"Why gleam upon this holy spot the deadly sword 
and spear ? 

None but Francis' blessed children 'neath our 
peaceful roof appear". 

81 holy father, we have come the bearers of a 
prayer, 

Over many a rugged mountain and valley rich 
and fair, 

To thy brethren who in cloistered cell thy found- 
er's habit wear. 

I am Ladye Nuala, the wife of Hugh O'Donnell 
Eoe, 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 129 

Whose banner waves where silvery Esk and 

murmuring Erne flow ; 
Where the Saints of God lived, prayed, and died 

in days of long ago. 

And they planted there a garden of sweetest 
scent and hue, 

Till the tempest came, and from its wings a poi- 
soning shadow threw, 

And the weeds are now grown strong and rank 
— the flowers are only few. 

" So come, O blessed father, and cast wide the 

seed again 
That Saint Patrick brought unto our shores 

across the white-browed main, 
And our Saviour watered with His Blood in 

agonie and pain. 

" And the vesper hymn will rise once more be- 
side our winding bay, » 

As the red sun steals beneath the waves to gol- 
den lands away, 

And the white stars, like The Virgin's eyes, 
smile on the headlands gray. 

" Oh ! come and gather in thy flock from clifted 

shore and hill, 

9 



130 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

And teach TirconnelPs gallant sons their Hea- 
venly Master's will, 

And His blessing, like a moonlit mist, will rest 
above us still". 

Thus answered then the father this noble lady's 

prayer : 
" It pains us that unto your land we cannot now 

repair. 
Some future time, with God's good grace, we '11 

turn our footsteps there ". 

Deep sorrow darkened on the brow of galloglach 

and kerne, 
And the maiden faces drooped as droops the 

rain-washed island fern, 
Till the ladye raised her hand, and spoke in 

angry tones and stern : 

" Then beware th* avenging wrath of God, — for 

every soul that f s lost ; 
Let it be for once and ever at your peril and 

your cost". 
" Amen " rose wild and solemn from the white 

lips of the host. 

Out the friars, through the open gate, came one, 
and two, and three, 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 131 

Till they stood within the centre of the noble 

companie— 
" We of our number, ladye, will gladly follow 

thee". 



Oh ! sweetly, sweetly did she smile and cast to 

heaven her eyes, 
To thank the Lord for blessing thus her saintly 

enterprise, 
And a shout of gladness echoed to the laughing 

summer skies. 

So the joyful cohort travelled on their spreading 

distant way, 
Over rugged hills and valleys fair for many and 

many a day, 
Till the sea-wind kissed their weary brows by 

Donegal's wild bay. 

And thus the Lady Nuala, with her noble chief- 
tains all, 

Raised the Abbey of St. Francis by the waves of 
Donegal — 

Christ save her chaste and loving soul from Pur- 
gatorial thrall ! 



1$2 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

THE BURNING OF DONEGAL ABBEY. 

[See Note.] 
PART I. 

O'Donnell was down in Thomond, 

With his chiefs and clansmen all, 
And many an anxious hour we passed, 
With Mass, and hymn, and holy fast, 

In the abbey of Donegal, 
Praying the Lord from His throne afar 
To keep from our walls the flame of war. 

But onward came the tidings 

By trusty ashlas borne — 
That Nial Garve O'DonnelPs clan 
Y^ere mustered to a single man 

In Saxon fealty sworn : 
The country wide was now their prey, 
Nor home, nor sacred shrine spared they. 

Then rose up from our brethren 

A wail of bitter woe, 
How could they leave the sacred spot, 
Where worldly cares intruded not, 

Poor wanderers forth to go ; 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 133 

Out on a world of crime and sin, 
To mingle with its clang and din ? 



We placed the sacred vessels 

In a good ship on the bay, 
For we saw the craven traitor's flag, — 
The blood-red flare of the Saxon rag, 

On the hill -paths far away — 
Then forth we went and bid farewell 
To altar, and shrine, and holy cell. 

It was upon St. Lawrence eve, 
From the gray woods at the east, 

The traitor clansmen poured along, 

"With savage jest and ribald song 
Accursed of monk and priest ; 

Soon in our abbey's holy shade 

Tramped the spearmen of the renegade. 

Then we prayed to good St. Francis, 

In each lonely hiding place 
(Which the mountain wolf alone could track), 
That God might send our chieftain back 

As the saviour of his race ; 
For we knew the strength of his fiery sword 
Would scatter the base defiling horde. 



134 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

And ever, ever southward 

We turned our weary eyes, 
While Saxon cannon firmly lined 
The abbey front and far behind 
With caution keen and wise ; 
Their muskets o'er the ramparts shone, 
Flashing beneath the August sun. 



The gray clouds floated eastwards, 

The sunlight kissed the strand, 
And down from Carrig wild and free 
Rush Hugh O'Donnell's chivalry, 
A brave unconquered band — 
Pale grew the traitor Nial then — 
And quailed the hearts of all his men* 

Out from the walls looked veterans 

In myriad battles tried — 
Men who had fought at Clontibret 
Until the star of Norris set, 

And stood where Bagnal died — 
Yet those stout hearts were troubled sore 
That never quailed at foe before. 

And round and round, a circle, 
Like a red belt of fire, 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS, 135 

Clasps the doomed fort; while, pent within, 
God's shrine beheld the Saxon's sin. 

Now nigher, ever nigher, 
Advance the leaguers — gun to gun, 
The thick smoke hides the blazing sun. 

It was the eve of Michaelmas 

Beside the Erne I stood, 
My brethren all were wrapt in prayer 
While I stood calmly watching there 

That fearful scene of blood — 
t The spring breeze swept up from the sea, 
And whistled onward merrilie. 

" God ! hast Thou deserted us ?" 

In my anguish thus I said ; 
Christ save us ! what a fearful glare, 
What a thundering crash swept thro' the air! 

Heaven's bolt at length has sped ; 
Upward a fiery demon tore — 
'T is the powder sprung from the chancel floor. 

And far and wide the echoes 

Told forth the cry of death — 
(Ah me ! that dark and fearful day !) 
Under the blazing ruins lay, 

For many a foot beneath, 



136 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

The invaders of the sanctuary : — 
Woe, woe for them in days to be. 



Dark Nial in London's Tower died 

With the Cain mark on his brow ; 
And far away, far, far away, 
In Yalladolid's cloisters gray, 

Sleeps Hugh O'Donnell now : 
Hugh the undaunted, gallant Hugh, 
To faith and country ever True. 



The sun smiled on the mountains, 

The young breeze kissed the strand; 
But ne'er again the vesper call 
Was heard within the abbey wall. 

A ruin in the land — 
It stands, unchangeable as death, 
The emblem of a changeless faith. 



I, Donough the monk, now tell this tale, 
As the white snow moves from the rising 3 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 137 



MY CAILIN RUADH. 

My fairy girl, my darling girl, 

If I were near thee now, 
The sunlight of your eyes would chase 

The sorrow from my brow ; 
Your lips would whisper o'er and o'er 

The words so fond and true, 
They whispered long and long ago, 

My gentle Cailin Ruadh. 



No more by Inny's bank I sit, 

Or rove the meadows brown, 
But count the weary hours away 

Pent in this dismal town ; 
I cannot breathe the pasture air, 

My father's homestead view, 
Or see another face like thine, 

My gentle Cailin Ruadh. 



Thy laugh was like the echo sent 
From Oonagh's crystal hall ; 

Thy eyes the moonlight's flashing glance 
Upon a waterfall ; 



138 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 

Thy hair the amber clouds at eve, 
When lovers haste to woo ; 

Thy teeth Killarney's snowy pearls,. 
My gentle Cailin Ruadh. 



sweetheart ! I can see thee stand 

Beside the orchard stile, 
The dawn upon thy regal brow, 

Upon thy mouth a smile ; 
The apple- bloom above thy head, 

Thy cheeks its glowing hue, 
The sunflash in thy radiant eyes, 

My gentle Cailin Ruadh. 



But drearily and wearily 

The snow is drifting by, 
And drearily and wearily 

It bears my lonely sigh 
Far from this lonely Connaught tow% 

To Inny's wave of blue, 
To the homestead in the fairy glen, 

And gentle Cailin Ruadh. 



BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 189 



TO PROFESSOR J. W. GLOVER. 

Wake up the harp of him* who lowly sleeps, 

Balmed in the dew of Ireland's silent tears ; 
Teach us to weep whene'er the minstrel weeps ; 
Teach us the glory of the olden years, 
When Ireland stood the peerless among peers ; 

Strike the wild march where high on Knockni- 
noss 
Colkitto stood among his broken clan, 

When Saxon blood flowed darkly on the moss 
Till evening's moon was lising sad and wan, 
And breezes came to mourn the heroes gone. 

Then let our souls be borne athrough the mist 
Of ages past, when he,f the minstrel, fell, 

Or conquering Brian marched, and, as we list, 
We hear the kingly conflict, and the knell 

That speaks of vanished days, when o'er the land 

Soft harps were touched, as thine, by wizard 
hand. 

Wake up those memories of the glorious past, 

And linked with his thy name shall ever last. 



* Moore. t The Minstrel Boy. 



140 BALLADS, SONGS, AND LEGENDS. 



L' ENVOI. 

I 've twined the last leaf of my garland, 

The night clouds are darkening the sky, 
And a voice from the gray dusk is whispering - 
" minstrel, good bye !" 

Soft music is filling the silence, 

Eyes glance like the eyes of the dead ; 
But the music dies out thro' the casement, 
The bright eyes are fled. 

I Ve twined the last leaf of my garland ; 

A lonely star shines in the sky, 
And the heart of the poet is weary : 
O bright eyes ! good bye. 



NOTES, 



i. 

The Burning of Donegal. 

In the Nodes Lovaniences, written by my esteemed 
friend, Rev. C. P. Meehan, and published in Duffy's Hiber- 
nian Magazine (old series), a full account of the burning 
of this once famous abhey will be found, to which the 
reader is referred for the materials on which the ballad is 
^written. 

II. 

The Grave and the Prison. 

Few who have read the report of John Lynch's trial at 
the Cork special commission, for Fenianism, and his letter 
to his sweetheart, Miss Nunan, but will forget their politi- 
cal predilections, and sympathise with the unfortunate fel- 
low, whose fate has been so well described in Mr, Hennessy's 
paper on political prisoners. I have merely written what 
I would write were the victim a native of any other coun- 
try, instead of being an Irishman. 



NOV 4 1901 



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